HER 

FAITHFUL 
KNIGHT 

GERTRUDE  WARDEN 


LIBRARY 

University   of   California 

IRVINE 


Her  Faithful  Knight 


BY 

GERTRUDE    WARDEN 


AUTHOR    OX 


"  A    STAGE    HEROINE,         "  IN    THE    DARK  -ARCHES, 
"WHOSE    WAS    THE    CRIME?"    ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
STREET  &  SMITH,  Publishers 

238    WlUOAM    StIEET    ' 


iffy 


7, 

//7 


Entered  According  to  act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1899 

By  Street  &  Smith, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


HER  FAITHFUL  KNIGHT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    HOUR   AND   THE   WOMAN. 

In  no  sense  of  the  word  can  Great  Russell  street  be 
called  a  cheerful  thoroughfare — especially  on  a  wet  day. 

The  British  Museum  pigeons,  huddled  together  in  the 
space  before  the  grim,  gray  building,  sacred  to  learning 
and  the  arts,  flap  their  soiled,  wet  wings  disconsolately; 
they  are  sober-minded  birds  at  the  best  of  times,  perpetu- 
ally weighted  by  a  consciousness  of  their  educational  sur- 
roundings. In  the  rain  they  look  only  a  little  less  be- 
draggled than  the  dreary  file  of  waterproofed  and  mackin- 
toshed  readers,  splashing  their  way  toward  the  shallow 
steps  and  heavy  portico  in  search  of  food  for  their  hungry 
minds. 

In  fine  weather  it  is  not  difficult  to  distinguish  between 
the  patrons  of  the  reading-room  and  the  art  students  who 
haunt  the  sculpture  galleries.  Among  the  latter  a  per- 
centage is  inclined  to  giggling  and  whispering,  to  beads, 
bows,  curled  fringes,  pigtails,  and  a  chastened  levity  of 
spirit.  Undersized  youths  between  the  ages  of  sixteen 
and  six-and-twenty ;  ill-dressed,  unshaven,  and  apparently 
unwashed,  occupy  a  considerable  amount  of  these  young 
ladies'  attention. 

On  a  wet  May  morning,  Aylmer  Read,  a  big,  fair- 
haired  young  man  of  seven-and-twenty,  sauntering  up 


6  The  Hour  and  the  Woman. 

Great  Russell  street  under  an  umbrella,  thinking  out  an 
article  he  meant  to  elaborate  by  the  aid  of  certain  vol- 
umes in  the  Museum  library,  beheld  none  of  these  social 
amenities,  and  decided  that  a  plainer  or  more  depressed 
looking  lot  of  people,  even  for  a  rainy  day,  than  these 
students  and  readers,  he  had  never  yet  considered.. 

"What  ugly  girls !  Upon  my  word,  they  have  need  to 
study  the  beautiful !  It  should  lead  to  smashed  looking- 
glasses  at  home,  though." 

After  seven  years  spent  in  the  chief  newspaper  office  of 
a  northern  manufacturing  town,  Aylmer  Read  had  seized 
the  chance  of  a  position  in  London,  and  rather  hoped  on 
his  return  thither  to  find  every  provincial  goose  ex- 
changed for  a  metropolitan  swan.  Born  and  reared  in 
London,  he  did  not  hope  to  see  the  streets  paved  with 
gold,  but  what  he  did  eagerly  anticipate  was  a  larger  in- 
tellectual life,  greater  possibilities  for  cultured  social  in- 
tercourse, and,  chiefly,  for  acquaintanceship  with  women 
in  his  own  rank  of  life,  who  combined  education  with 
grace  and  beauty. 

Up  in  Clofield  his  brother  journalists  had  mated  con- 
tentedly with  their  landladies'  daughters,  with  barmaids. 
or  with  chance  young  women  encountered  on  their  year- 
ly outings ;  and  these  ladies  had,  according  to  their  sev- 
eral lights,  cooked  and  mended  and  managed  for  them, 
provided  them  with  families,  nagged  at  them,  gossipped 
about  them,  cordially  admired  their  abilities  and  deplored 
their  increasing  love  for  strong  drinks,  and  made 
wretched  the  lives  of  sundry  overworked  and  underfed 
"helps"  in  the  kitchen  and  the  nursery. 

With  such  a  helpmeet,  Aylmer  Read,  at  seven-and- 
twenty,  with  a  digestion  which  so  far  defied  bad  cookery, 
could  by  no  means  be  satisfied.  Although  he  lived  in  the 
latter  end  of  the  nineteenth  century,  he  cherished  feelings 
of  romance  and  chivalry.     Outwardly  calm,  matter  of 


The  Hour  and  the  Woman.  7 

fact,  and  conventional,  he  alone  suspected  his  own  latent 
capability  for  making  a  fool  of  himself  about  a  woman. 
In  Clofield  his  work  had  been  ill  paid,  his  time  fully  occu- 
pied, and  the  women  he  met  few  and  unattractive.  Here 
in  London  all  these  conditions  were  altered.  He  was  to 
have  more  money  and  more  leisure,  and  the  exact  psycho- 
logical moment  had  come  when,  given  the  woman  with 
the  necessary  magnetic  power  over  him,  he  was  bound 
to  fall  fathoms  deep  in  love  with  her. 

The  birds  of  Venus  were  shaking  the  raindrops  from 
their  soot  begrimed  feathers  in  the  Museum  courtyard. 
Possibly  the  Sea-born  herself  may  have  hovered  above 
the  fog  and  rain-clouds  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Parthenon 
fragments,  and,  ever  intent  on  securing  votaries  and  vic- 
tims, may  have  directed  Aylmer  Read's  vision  up  a  cer- 
tain side  street,  down  which  a  woman  in  blue  serge  was 
coming  toward  him. 

The  woman  was  young  and  shapely;  she  carried  her- 
self well  and  gracefully,  even  though  hampered  by  an  um- 
brella, a  handbag,  and  a  skirt  which  was  too  long  at  the 
back,  and  had  to  be  lifted  above  a  pair  of  beautiful  feet  in 
cheap  walking  shoes.  To  be  graceful  under  such  cir- 
cumstances was  in  itself  an  exceptional  thing,  and  de- 
noted a  unique  equality  in  this  young  woman,  distin- 
guishing her  among  others  of  her  age  and  sex.  To  the 
injury  of  his  peace  of  mind,  Aylmer  had  to  learn  that  this 
woman  could  not  ever  look  ungainly,  so  admirably  sym- 
metrical were  her  proportions.  While  yet  her  face  was 
concealed  by  the  umbrella  his  heart  began  to  beat  a  very 
little  faster,  so  certain  was  he  that  her  features  would 
prove  as  wholly  charming  as  her  gait  and  carriage.  A 
gust  of  wind  came  at  his  unspoken  prayer,  and,  as  she 
crossed  the  street  and  passed  close  to  him,  her  umbrella 
was  blown  sufficiently  on  one  side  to  enable  him  to  take 
a  long  look  at  her  face. 


8  The  Hour  and  the  Woman. 

She  was  very  beautiful,  as  he  knew  she  would  be,  pale 
and  fair,  and  somewhat  thin,  but  not  unhealthy  looking ; 
in  age,  apparently  twenty,  and  in  expression,  serious  and 
a  little  sad.  Her  eyes  were  gray  and  luminous,  set  off  by 
dark  lashes  and  straight,  well  marked  eyebrows ;  her  fea- 
tures were  delicate  and  her  lips  very  firmly  closed.  Light 
brown  hair  that  only  asked  for  sunlight  to  shine  golden, 
crowned  the  pale,  pink  fairness  of  her  skin ;  in  figure  she 
was  rather  tall,  and  larger  in  the  waist  than  a  fashionable 
dressmaker  would  have  permitted.  Her  clothes  were 
cheap  and  plain ;  shabby  and  dowdy  they  might  have  ap- 
peared on  a  less  beautiful  woman ;  but  in  Aylmer  Read's 
eyes  the  cestus  of  Venus  could  not  have  more  admirably 
set  off  her  charms. 

He  knew  instinctively  that  she  was  going  to  the  Mu- 
seum, and  this  not  by  reason  of  any  resemblance  between 
her  and  the  students  and  readers  who  had  gone  before, 
but  because  he  felt  romantically  certain  that  she  was  des- 
tined to  come  under  his  particular  notice,  and  to  play 
from  henceforth  an  important  part  in  his  life. 

The  long  look  he  had  taken  into  her  face  seemed  to  him 
to  establish  already  a  relationship  between  them,  al- 
though she  had  passed  by  as  though  unaware  of  his  pres- 
ence. A  woman  so  beautiful  as  she  imperatively  de- 
manded a  chivalrous  protector  to  follow  at  a  distance  and 
guard  her  from  the  undesirable  attentions  her  attractions 
might  provoke  in  a  great  city.  Already  he  had  forgot- 
ten the  object  which  brought  him  to  Great  Russell  street, 
but  he  followed  the  beautiful  ill-shod  feet  across  the 
courtyard  and  past  the  dripping,  shining  pigeons  up  the 
steps  and  into  the  Museum. 

Here  a  check  awaited  him.  The  beautiful  unknown 
wrote  her  name  in  the  students'  book  and  disappeared  to 
remove  her  hat.  By  this  time  Aylmer  recalled  the  fact 
that  he  was  a  reader  and  not  a  student,  and  that  his  way 


The  Hour  and  the  Woman.  9 

lay  far  from  hers.  He  was  a  man  of  resource,  and  ac- 
customed by  his  sub-editorial  work  on  a  great  newspaper 
to  keep  his  wits  about  him  in  an  emergency.  There  was 
only  one  course  open  to  him — he  must  become  an  art 
student. 

Aylmer  Read  could  not  draw.  He  could  criticise  other 
men's  drawings,  but  would  have  been  sore  put  to  it  to 
rival  the  productions  of  even  an  inferior  pavement  artist 
in  colored  chalks.  He  resolved  to  make  a  tour  of  the 
sculpture  galleries  to  discover  for  himself  how  much  tal- 
ent was  displayed  by  the  embryo  Raphaels  and  Michael 
Angelos  assembled  there,  and  to  learn  whether  such  ele- 
mentary attempts  as  his  were  likely  to  prove  would  be 
startlingly  conspicuous. 

The  students  were  trooping  through  the  galleries,  mak- 
ing first  for  a  room  off  the  corridors  devoted  to  Assyrian 
bas  reliefs  in  search  of  the  easels,  drawing  boards,  and  ob- 
long wooden  boxes  which  served  as  seats  and  were 
stacked  there.  Aylmer's  fair  lady  came  thither  in  course 
of  time.  She  had  removed  her  hat  and  scarf,  and  the 
light  from  the  glass  roofing  fell  on  her  hair  which  even  on 
this  dullest  of  days  lent  color  and  brightness  to  the  scene. 
Fine,  glossy,  and  abundant,  typically  English  gold-brown 
hair  it  was,  beautifully  brushed,  and  twisted  into  shining 
coils  with  care  more  suggestive  of  a  French  than  an 
Anglo-Saxon  maiden.  The  outline  of  her  broad,  white 
forehead  was  softened  by  a  wave  of  fair  hair,  but  Ayl- 
mer's lady  wore  no  set  "fringe,"  and  he  found  himself 
wondering  how  he  could  ever  have  admired  any  girl 
whose  coiffure  was  destitute  of  parting  and  who  sported  a 
curled  "bang." 

She  passed  him  again,  easel  in  hand,  on  her  way  to  the 
Greek  sculptures.  Following  her  was  a  sharpfaced  un- 
dersized youth,  against  whom  Aylmer  instantly  conceived 
a  violent  dislike,  for  he  was  carrying  her  drawing  board 


io  The  Hour  and  the  Woman. 

and  her  boxes,  and  winking  in  triumph  at  a  group  of  his 
companions.  That  anything  in  masculine  shape  should 
wink  while  doing  her  a  service  was  an  outrage.  It  was 
clearly  necessary  that  Ayliner  should  at  once  become  a 
student  in  order  that  she  might  be  waited  upon  in  a 
proper  spirit  of  reverence. 

The  gallery  in  which  Aylmer's  lady  took  her  place  was 
long  and  narrow,  at  one  end  was  a  fine  figure  of  Hermes, 
and  this  it  was  that  she  had  come  to  copy. 

Aylmer  strolled  through  the  galleries,  feigning  deep  in- 
terest in  the  broken  statuary,  and  unconsciously  exciting 
much  fluttering  attention  in  the  minds  of  the  loose-haired, 
corsetless  young  ladies,  who,  having  taken  up  their  study 
of  the  human  form  from  antique  models,  could  duly  ap- 
preciate his  fine  proportions. 

"Isn't  he  splendid?  A  figure  like  Hermes.  And  his 
head  is  beautifully  put  on  his  neck." 

"HeJll  grow  beefy  when  he's  middle-aged.  Those  big, 
fair  men  always  do." 

"All  the  same,  wouldn't  you  like  to  be  as  tall  and  broad 
as  that,  Mr.  Smith  ?" 

"No,  thynks.  It's  all  wyste  material.  A  small  body 
and  a  big  brain  is  what's  wanted  if  one  has  to  make  one's 
way  in  the  world." 

Such  were  among  the  comments  which  Aylmer's  ap- 
pearance excited  among  the  art  students.  But  Mr.  Smith, 
the  sharp-faced  cockney  youth  who  had  been  the  last 
speaker,  looked,  as  he  was,  very  good-natured,  and  pres- 
ently Aylmer,  after  making  a  tour  of  the  Elgin  marbles, 
addressed  himself  to  him  for  information. 

"I  should  very  much  like  to  make  some  studies  from 
these  statutes,"  he  said.  "May  I  ask  what  qualifications 
are  required  for  students  here?" 

"You  don't  want  to  get  into  the  Akedemy,  I  suppose  ?" 
suggested  Mr.  Smith.     "Most  of  us  are  droring  for  passes 


The  Hour  and  the  Woman.  n 

into  the  Akedemy  schools,  you  know.  Once  we  get  in, 
which  'arf  of  us  won't,  we  hope  to  be  sent  to  Rome  on 
account  of  our  remarkable  talent." 

"And  what  would  you  do  in  Rome  ?"  inquired  Aylmer, 
amused  by  the  humorous  little  cockney — albeit  he  had 
been  guilty  of  winking  as  he  carried  beauty's  drawing 
board. 

"Oh,  tike  in  art  at  the  pores,  and  come  'ome  Corregios. 
Seems  a  large  order,  don't  it  ?" 

Mr.  Smith  was  most  ready  with  his  information.  If 
Aylmer  obtained  a  ticket  there  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  "dror"  statues  all  day  if  his  tastes  lay  in  that 
direction.  The  slight  measure  of  proficiency  which  was 
needed  in  order  to  insure  admittance  as  a  student  was 
a  drawback  in  his  case,  certainly,  but  might  be  overcome. 

"As  to  your  droring  badly,"  said  Mr.  Smith,  "lots  of 
us  do  thet.  I've  seen  that  blessed  Satyr  with  cymbals 
caricatured  to  that  extent  it  was  enough  to  mike  him 
turn  on  his  pedestal.  Get  your  ticket,  and  you're  free  to 
spoil  as  much  good  droring  paper  as  the  best  of  us." 

Aylmer  thanked  him  for  his  advice  and  encouragement 
and  made  his  way  back  to  the  room  where  the  girl  in  the 
blue  serge  was  copying  the  Hermes.  Standing  in  the 
doorway  he  could  watch  her  profile  without  attracting 
attention.  As  she  became  absorbed  in  her  work  he  noted 
an  eagerness  in  her  expression  quite  unlike  the  thought- 
ful sadness  which  he  had  first  seen  in  her  face. 

The  hands  with  which  she  dexterously  wielded  char- 
coal, chalk  and  bread,  were  slender,  well  shaped  and 
strong,  and  something  in  the  curve  of  her  wrist  inspired 
in  Aylmer  an  insane  wish  to  cover  it  with  kisses.  The 
back  of  her  neck,  just  above  the  collar  of  her  gown,  was 
likewise  distracting,  of  a  warm,  creamy  fairness,  shaded 
by  stray  tendrils  of  soft,  fair  hair.  It  seemed  wonderful 
to  Aylmer  that  the  male  students  in  her  vicinity  should 


12  The  Hour  and  the  Woman. 

waste  their  pencils  on  unresponsive  marble  with  this  love- 
ly model  before  their  eyes.  He  was  even  conscious  of 
surprise  at  the  unmoved  calm  of  the  curator  who  sat  in  a 
corner  of  the  gallery  nursing  his  wand,  and  hardly  glanc- 
ing in  the  fair-haired  lady's  direction.  An  overpowering 
desire  to  make  her  look  at  him,  to  meet  the  full  gaze  of 
her  gray  eyes  fixed  on  his,  impelled  Aylmer  to  walk  a 
little  way  down  the  gallery,  and  then  pause  for  a  moment 
in  front  of  a  marble  group  near  her  seat. 

As  he  did  so  the  girl  turned  her  head  a  little  to  the 
right,  and  their  eyes  met  for  the  first  time.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  no  woman  had  ever  looked  at  him  before,  and 
that  they  two  were  as  much  alone  and  separate  from  the 
rest  as  the  first  man  and  first  woman  together  in  Eden. 
She  looked  at  him  half  wonderingly  under  contracted 
brows,  as  though  trying  to  recollect  where  she  had  seen 
him  before.  Her  eyes  were  very  brilliant,  of  a  peculiar 
hazel-gray  that  looked  almost  green  in  the  strongest 
light ;  his  were  brown,  and  in  their  direct,  steadfast  gaze 
the  least  of  vain  women  could  have  read  something 
stronger  than  admiration,  while  the  most  modest  need 
not  have  shrunk  from  their  unspoken  homage.  Clearly, 
the  lady  in  blue  was  not  annoyed  With  him  for  staring  at 
her,  for  even  when,  with  a  deep  blush,  she  looked  away 
from  him  to  her  drawing  board  there  was  nothing  in  her 
expression  that  betokened  displeasure. 

That  long  look,  given  and  received,  was  to  Aylmer's 
thinking  a  most  hopeful  beginning  to  his  courtship.  At 
least,  she  would  remember  him  again,  and  if  his  eyes  pos- 
sessed half  the  eloquence  he  desired,  she  would  know  that 
he  had  fallen  in  love  with  her. 

Such  a  first  impression  was  too  precious  to  be  inter- 
fered with,  and  after  a  few  more  inquiries  at  the  entrance 
as  to  the  coveted  student's  ticket,  Aylmer  Read  left  the 
building. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A     MOONLIGHT     WALK. 

Prepared  with  the  necessary  ticket,  Aylmer  Read  a  few 
days  later  went  to  the  British  Museum,  inscribed  his  name 
in  the  students'  book,  selected  his  easel  and  board,  and 
strolled  down  the  galleries  in  search  of  something  easy  to 
draw. 

.To  his  intense  disappointment  and  vexation  the  divinity 
in  blue  serge  did  not  appear,  and  after  wasting  three  hours 
in  making  strange  hieroglyphics  on  the  paper  before  him 
and  promptly  rubbing  them  out  before  anybody  saw 
them,  the  new  student  left  the  galleries  in  disgust,  and 
did  not  return  until  two  days  later.  In  the  interim  he  had 
searched  the  neighborhood  for  her  in  vain ;  but  on  a 
sunny  morning  in  early  June  he  entered  the  Hermes  Gal- 
lery and  noted  with  delight  how  the  strong  light  from 
above  made  an  aureole  of  a  -girl's  bright  hair,  as  she  bent, 
seated,  over  a  sketchbook. 

As  though  to  add  a  finishing  touch  to  his  utter  subju- 
gation, she  wore  new  shoes,  cut  low  in  front,  and  a  pink 
cabbage  rose  pinned  near  the  neck  of  her  gown,  contrast- 
ing with  the  paler  pink  fairness  of  her  face.  She  did  not 
appear  to  notice  his  entrance,  and  went  on  quietly  sketch- 
ing in  pencil  a  broken  statuette  of  Eros,  while  Aylmer,  in- 
different as  to  his  subject,  gravely  set  up  his  easel  before 
the  bust  called  "Clytie." 

Hardly,  however,  could  he  even  pretend  to  study  the 
features  of  Phoebus'  unhappy  love  except  to  compare 
them  with  those  of  the  girl  in  blue.     "Clytie"  was  fat  and 


14  A  Moonlight  Walk. 

commonplace,  her  brow  was  too  low  for  intelligence,  and 
her  locks  were  evidently  artificially  curled.  The  face  of 
the  girl  in  blue,  on  the  other  hand,  grew  momentarily 
more  interesting  by  reason  of  the  mingled  strength  and 
weakness  which  he  seemed  to  read  there.  Her  uncon- 
sciousness of  his  presence  he  discovered  early  to  be  a 
sham ;  more  than  once  she  looked  at  him  curiously  when 
she  thought  him  fully  occupied  by  his  work — only  once, 
though,  did  she  meet  his  eyes,  and  then  she  instantly  af- 
fected to  be  absorbed  in  a  piece  of  sculpture  beyond  him. 

Her  face  as  a  possible  index  to  her  character  was  per- 
plexing and  contradictory.  Those  quickly  glancing,  bril- 
liant eyes,  the  color  of  which  seemed  to  constantly  vary, 
were  sympathetic,  and  would  have  been  even  coquettish 
but  for  a  set,  resolute  hardness  in  the  closing  of  the  beau- 
tiful mouth.  The  chin  was  white,  well  rounded  and  emi- 
nently kissable,  curving  in  temptingly  under  the  lower  lip ; 
but  the  pure  lines  of  her  profile  were  almost  coldly  classic 
in  outline.  Cold,  too,  was  her  bearing,  and  very  cold, 
even  icy,  her  voice  when  a  certain  would-be  Lothario 
among  her  fellow-students  tried  to  enter  into  conversa- 
tion with  her  on  the  pretext  of  some  borrowed  bread. 

She  did  not  stay  very  long  in  the  gallery,  but  having 
completed  her  sketch,  left  her  seat  and  walked  away  to 
another  part  of  the  building.  Something  fell  from  her 
sketchbook  as  she  rose,  and,  after  being  dragged  a  little 
way  in  the  train  of  her  gown,  became  free  of  it  within  a 
yard  of  Aylmer's  feet.  It  was  a  cabinet  photograph,  and 
as  Aylmer  lifted  it  from  the  ground  with  the  intention  of 
returning  it,  he  saw  at  once  that  it  was  a  portrait  of  her- 
self, and  that  underneath  was  written  in  a  large,  clear 
lady's  hand  :     "Miss  Phyllis  Knight." 

The  picture  did  not  do  her  justice;  but  it  lay  in  Ayl- 
mer's hand;  no  one  was  looking,  and  all  is  fair  in  love. 
These  considerations  influenced  him  as  he  deliberately 


A  Moonlight  Walk.  15 

turned  it  over  and  read  the  number  of  the  card  and  ,the 
name  of  the  photographer  on  the  back.  Should  he  place 
it  in  her  hands  at  once?  It  would  seem  a  good  oppor- 
tunity for  addressing  her,  but  Aylmer  decided  that  the 
right  moment  for  so  doing  had  not  yet  arrived.  He  had 
no  wish  to  be  treated  in  the  same  frigid  style  as  the  gen- 
tleman of  the  bread  incident ;  he  would  wait  his  time,  and 
meantime  place  the  portrait  on  the  seat  where  its  owner 
had  been  sitting. 

Meanwhile  he  could  not  wait  until  he  got  home  be- 
fore writing  to  the  provincial  photographer,  whose  ad- 
dress he  had  mentally  registered.  Quitting  the  Museum, 
he  struck  into  Oxford  street,  and  ordering  lunch,  and 
pen,  ink  and  paper,  at  the  nearest  restaurant,  he  requested 
the  man  to  send,  in  return  for  the  P.  O.  O.  inclosed  the 
portrait  of  Miss  Phyllis  Knight,  of  which  he  gave  the 
number,  and  to  inform  him  whether  he  had  taken  any 
other  pictures  of  the  lady.  Once  this  letter  was  stamped 
and  posted,  Aylmer  returned  to  the  study  of  art  in  the 
highest  spirits.  The  Hermes  Gallery  appeared  deserted, 
save  for  the  curator  dozing  over  his  wand  in  his  seat  in 
the  corner.  The  luncheon  hour  was,  as  a  rule,  devoted  to 
sandwiches  and  strolling  visits.  The  afternoon  was  hot 
and  inducive  to  indolence.  But  before  one  easel  a  tall, 
charming  figure  stood,  with  her  back  to  Aylmer,  her 
hands  clasped  behind  her,  her  fair  head  a  little  inclined  to 
one  side,  considering  the  work  before  her;  and  with  a 
strong  inclination  to  laugh,  Aylmer  realized  that  the  girl 
in  blue  serge  was  criticising  his  attempts  to  draw  the 
"Clyde." 

The  gallery  was  perfectly  still  and  quiet.  Aylmer  ad- 
vanced slowly  and  softly,  and  the  girl  in  blue  thought  she 
was  alone,  save  for  the  sleeping  curator.  As  she  con- 
templated Mr.  Read's  attempt  to  reproduce  the  Clytie's 
features,  her  sense  of  humor  overcame  her ;  she  burst  into 


1 6  A  Moonlight  Walk. 

a  low  laugh  of  intense  amusement,  girlish,  spontaneous 
and  infectious.  In  the  middle  of  it  she  turned  her  head 
sharply  at  some  slight  sound,  and  found  Aylmer  standing 
a  few  feet  behind  her,  laughing  also.  In  a  moment  she 
had  blushed  deeply,  composed  her  features  and  walked 
sedately  away  with  head  erect,  humming  a  tune  in  the 
most  indifferent  way  in  the  world.  But  her  laughing 
face  had  been  a  revelation  of  lovely  gaiety  and  shining 
white  teeth  to  the  young  man,  and  he  realized  instantly 
that  her  coldness  of  look  and  manner  were  assumed,  and 
that  under  that  veneer  of  dignity  she  was  nothing  more 
than  a  light-hearted  girl. 

Not  another  glimpse  of  her  did  he  catch  that  after- 
noon, during  the  course  of  which  he  received  some  can- 
did criticism  on  his  debut  as  an  art  student  from  the  irre- 
pressible Mr.  Smith. 

"So  that's  your  idea  of  the  Clytie,"  observed  that  young 
man,  arriving  inopportunely,  before  Aylmer  had  had 
time  to  completely  erase  his  efforts.  "A  bit  'off'  in  the 
matter  of  droring,  isn't  it?  We've  been  having  a  discus- 
sion about  you,  some  of  the  fellers  and  I.  Some  of  'em 
think  you  dror  so  badly  you  must  be  founding  a  new 
school.  One  chap  thinks  you're  a  private  detective,  wait- 
ing here  to  spot  somebody ;  but  as  none  of  us  have  done 
anything  worse  than  leave  our  washing  bills  unpaid,  that 
don't  seem  likely  either.  Unless  Miss  Knight's  murdered 
some  one  who  was  trying  to  mike  up  to  her.  She  looks 
as  if  she  could  do  it  sometimes." 

"Who  is  Miss  Knight?" 

"Dont'  tell  me  you  don't  know  the  nime  of  the  prettiest 
girl  in  the  galleries.  The  one  with  the  fair  'air  and  the 
rippin"  figger  in  blue  serge,  of  course.  The  girls  here 
call  her  'Diana  the  Disdainful.'  She  don't  dror  at  all 
badly,  and  earns  her  living  by  it,  which  is  more  than  most 
of  us  can  do.     Does  designs  and  sketches  and  things,  not 


A  Moonlight  Walk.  17 

'arf  bad  some  of  'em ;  but  don't  she  think  a  lot  of  'erself, 
that's  all!  The  others  are  all  'ugging  each  other,  and 
kissing,  and  arm  round  each  other,  and  telling  spiteful 
stories  about  each  other  all  day.  But  she,  she  don't  take 
any  more  notice  of  'em  than  if  they  were  so  many  flies. 
She  isn't  my  style — too  much  of  the  stined  glass  window 
line  for  me.  I  like  something  a  bit  lively,  that  can  cheek 
you  back.  But  there's  no  denying  that  her  modeling's 
first  rate  and  her  flesh  tints  simply  A  1." 

Aylmer  subdued  a  great  longing  to  take  Mr.  Smith  by 
the  scruff  of  his  neck  and  summarily  eject  him  from  the 
Museum.  In  order  to  divert  his  sacrilegious  talk  to  some 
less  precious  topic  he  gravely  informed  his  cockney  ac- 
quaintance that  he  fully  intended  taking  up  art  as  a  pro- 
fession, and  relied  upon  his  total  inability  to  draw  as  his 
most  promising  stock  in  trade. 

"I  shall  call  myself  an  impressionist,"  he  said.  "I  shall 
get  a  schoolboy  nephew  of  mine,  who  has  a  box  of  paints, 
to  color  my  designs.  Then  I  shall  put  them  in  eccentric 
frames,  hire  a  gallery,  and  give  a  'one  man'  show.  If  I 
am  remonstrated  with,  I  shall  say  I  only  paint  as  I  see. 
The  new  journalists  will  discover  that  I  am  an  artist  of 
strong  natural  genius  and  individuality,  who  has  the  cour- 
age to  cast  aside  the  trammels  and  conventions  which 
hamper  art  in  England." 

Mr.  Smith  laughed  and  winked.  The  new  student 
wasn't  a  bad  sort,  he  decided,  and  forthwith  marked  his 
approval  by  asking  the  loan  of  half  a  crown.  It  was  pat- 
ent that  the  farce  of  art  studies  could  not  be  kept  up  much 
longer,  and  that  Aylmer's  one  object  in  playing  it,  the 
chance  of  making  the  acquaintance  of  the  girl  in  blue, 
must  be  speedily  accomplished  if  he  wished  to  spare  her 
fellow  students'  charring  comments. 

Chance,  as  some  would  have  termed  it,  or  fate,  as  Ayl- 
mer himself  considered   it;  unexpectedly  assisted   him. 


18  A  Moonlight  Walk. 

His  sub-editorial  work  on  a  London  daily  newspaper  kept 
him  employed  from  a  little  before  nine  every  evening  un- 
til about  four  on  the  following  morning.  At  the  present 
time  he  was  staying  in  bachelor  apartments  situated  con- 
veniently near  his  club  off  the  Strand  and  the  office  of  his 
newspaper  in  Fleet  street.  Saturdays  were  entirely  free, 
and  on  the  following  day,  which  was  a  Saturday,  Aylmer 
was  asked  to  appear  for  an  absent  dramatic  critic  at  the 
first  performance  of  a  new  play  at  a  fashionable  comedy 
theatre  not  far  from  Piccadilly  Circus.  He  was  glad  of 
the  work  as  a  change  from  the  office  routine,  although  at 
this  present  time  he  was  so  deeply  in  love  that  he  would 
rather  have  spent  the  evening  in  roaming  the  streets  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  Museum,  in  the  hope  of  meeting 
the  lady  of  his  thoughts,  than  have  enjoyed  the  finest  play 
ever  performed  on  any  stage. 

Perhaps,  in  consequence  of  this  exceptional  frame  of 
mind,  the  new  piece  failed  to  interest  him.  There  was 
not  enough  love  in  it,  and  the  leading  lady  was  extremely 
unlike  his  ideal  in  appearance. 

"Either  the  piece  and  the  acting  are  mediocre,"  thought 
Aylmer,  "or  this  love  is  making  such  a  fool  of  me  as  to 
incapacitate  me  from  enjoying  anything  in  life." 

He  had  fully  made  up  his  mind  to  ask  Miss  Knight  to 
marry  him  on  the  first  possible  opportunity ;  but  such  a 
request  requires  a  little  leading  up  to,  and  her  bearing 
was  so  fenced  about  with  chilling  dignity  that  he  dared 
not  injure  his  possible  chances  by  appearing  officious  and 
premature.  Under  this  system,  Aylmer,  a  naturally 
pleasant  tempered  man,  was  growing  absent-minded,  cap- 
tious and  irritable.  Her  image  dominated  his  dreams, 
spoiled  his  meals,  and  never  for  a  moment  left  his  waking 
mind.  He  was  conscious  that  such  a  state  of  things  could 
not  go  on,  and  longed  to  bring  matters  to  a  crisis.  Who 
and  what  she  was,  what  position  in  life  her  parents  and 


A  Moonlight  Walk.  19 

relations  occupied,  what  was  her  history,  her  education — 
on  all  these  subjects  Aylmer  was  as  thoroughly  indiffer- 
ent as  only  a  man  of  strong  and  long-repressed  feelings, 
thoroughly  in  love  for  the  first  time,  can  be.  He  did  not 
suppose  the  gray-eyed  girl  an  angel,  but  he  knew  that  she 
was  the  first  woman  he  had  ever  met  capable  of  inspiring 
in  him  an  overmastering  passion,  and  that,  as  a  conse- 
quence, she  must  be  his  wife. 

Through  the  course  of  the  more  or  less  trivial  story 
which  was  being  represented  before  him  by  ladies  in  ex- 
travagantly priced  gowns,  with  many  smart  speeches  to 
deliver  which  only  the  older  members  of  the  company 
made  audible  to  the  body  of  the  house,  Aylmer  Read 
planned  in  his  head  a  dozen  different  ways  by  which  he 
could  make  himself  known  to  Phyllis  Knight,  and  chafed 
at  the  conventions  of  the  age  in  which  he  lived  as  con- 
trasted with  the  free  and  easy  wooing  practiced  in  the 
brave  days  of  old. 

Between  the  third  and  fourth  acts  he  smoked  a  cigar- 
ette in  the  broad  street  on  which  the  front  of  the  theatre 
opened,  and  thought  out  the  matter. 

"In  a  primitive  community  I  should  merely  have  to 
squat  at  the  door  of  her  father's  wigwam,  mention  my  re- 
quest, give  the  old  gentleman  some  little  present  of  oxen, 
or  some  other  useful  trifle,  and  bear  my  bride  away.  As 
it  is,  I  absolutely  stand  hour  after  hour  within  a  few  yards 
of  her  and  dare  not  even  speak  to  her.  It  is  a  monstrous 
absurdity." 

He  strolled  along  the  moonlit  thoroughfare,  his  over- 
coat open,  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  thinking. 
Down  a  side  street,  at  right  angles  with  the  front  of  the 
theatre,  and  which  led  round  to  the  stage  door,  a  young 
woman  was  hurrying;  a  thick,  black  veil  concealed  her 
features,  but  the  beauty  of  her  figure  was  clearly  shown 
by  her  close-fitting  blue  serge  gown,  and  under  her  bon- 


ao  A  Moonlight  Walk. 

net  bright  fair  hair  shone  in  the  light  from  the  street 
lamps  by  the  way. 

Something  of  the  pose  of  her  head  and  the  quick  grace 
of  her  movements  attracted  Aylmer's  attention.  He  told 
himself  that  his  thoughts  were  so  set  upon  one  particular 
woman  that  he  was  ready  to  detect  a  resemblance  to  her 
where  none  existed ;  but  he  crossed  the  road  in  her  track 
in  order  to  get  a  better  look  at  her. 

As  she  turned  into  Waterloo  place,  three  young  men  in 
evening  dress,  walking  arm  in  arm,  came  round  the  cor- 
ner so  quickly  as  to  almost  run  into  her.  Instead  of  let- 
ting her  pass  on,  they  blocked  her  way,  overwhelming  her 
with  unnecessary  apologies.  As  Aylmer  came  nearer  he 
could  see  that  she  carried  a  small  portfolio  under  her  arm. 
and  at  sight  of  it  his  heart  began  to  thump  against  his 
side.  Nearer  yet  he  came,  covering  the  ground  with  long 
strides.  The  group  ahead  were  close  under  the  light  of  a 
gas  lamp,  and  the  three  men  who,  if  not  exactly  intoxi- 
cated, had  at  least  been  dining  freely,  were  clearly  visible 
to  Aylmer.  The  eldest  among  them,  a  red-faced,  gray- 
whiskered  man,  with  bold,  bloodshot  eyes,  peered  into  the 
girl's  face,  complimented  her  upon  her  looks,  and  as  she 
tried  to  brush  past  him,  laid  a  detaining  hand  upon  her 
arm.  The  girl  shook  him  off  with  a  little  cry  of  indigna- 
tion, which  had  scarcely  left  her  lips  when  she  was  joined 
by  a  tall,  broadly  built  young  man  in  evening  dress,  and 
a  light  overcoat,  who  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm 
and  turned  threateningly  upon  her  tormentors. 

"May  I  see  you  to  a  cab,  Miss  Knight  ?"  he  said,  as  the 
men  reeled  away,  laughing.  "The  streets  of  London  at 
eleven  o'clock  are  not  pleasant  for  an  unattended  lady.  I 
am  so  glad  I  happened  to  see  you.  Being  a  fellow  stu- 
dent of  yours  at  the  British  Museum,  I  felt  I  had  a  right 
to  protect  you  from  annoyance." 


A  Moonlight  Walk.  21 

"Mr.  Read!"  she  exclaimed,  looking  up  at  him  won- 
deringly. 

At  least,  she  had  taken  the  trouble  to  find  out  his  name, 
and  that  of  itself  was  an  encouraging  sign. 

"I  was  seeing  the  new  piece,"  he  explained.  "I  was 
smoking  a  cigarette  outside  when  I  caught  sight  of  you 
crossing  the  street.  It  is  very  late  for  you  to  be  out. 
You  will  let  me  see  you  to  your  home,  will  you  not  ?" 

"Thank  you,  I  am  really  quite  able  to  take  care  of  my- 
self," she  said,  in  her  little  cold  manner,  withdrawing  her 
hand  from  his  arm.  "Please  don't  let  me  take  you  from 
the  theatre.  The  last  act  had  not  begun  when  I  left.  I 
was  sketching  the  dresses  in  the  green-room  and  the  cur- 
tain will  hardly  have  risen  yet.  I  know  my  way  perfectly 
and  am  not  likely  to  be  annoyed  again." 

Her  voice,  in  spite  of  the  studied  restraint  of  its  ac- 
cents, delighted  him.  It  was  eminently  the  voice  of  a 
lady,  sweet  and  low-pitched,  and  wholly  free  from  the 
shrill  and  unpleasing  inflection  at  that  time  popular 
among  would-be  "smart"  folk. 

"I  can't  leave  you  now,"  he  said,  gently.  "I  must  de- 
cline to  be  dismissed  until  I  have  put  you  in  your  cab  or 
omnibus." 

"I  cannot  ever  afford  to  take  a  cab,"  she  returned,  sim- 
ply, "and  I  generally  walk  until  my  omnibus  fare  is  two 
pence." 

"Let  me  come  with  you  as  far  as  the  two-penny  limit," 
he  urged.  "Why,  Miss  Knight,  should  you  treat  me  as  a 
roaring  lion,  seeking  whom  I  may  devour,  simply  because 
I  am  a  man  and  you  are  a  young  lady  ?  If  you  insist  on  a 
formal  introduction,  I  will  supply  it.  My  name  is  Aylmer 
Read ;  my  father  is  dead ;  my  mother  has  married  again. 
He  was  a  writer;  I  am  a  journalist.  For  seven  years  I 
lived  at  Clofield,  and  for  about  as  many  weeks  I  have  been 


22  A  Moonlight  Walk. 

on  the  staff  of  the  Daily  Post  in  London.  My  duties  be- 
gin about  nine  p.  m.  and  finish  about  four  a.  m.  I  lodge 
in  Hereford  street,  am  a  member  of  the  Wigwam  Club, 
owe  no  man  anything,  have  in  London  no  relations  and 
very  few  friends,  and  am  entirely  my  own  master.  Also, 
I  have  never  been  in  any  sense  a  gay  Lothario,  and  I 
wish  I  had  a  sister  that  she  might  tell  you  that  I  reverence 
women." 

Aylmer  Read's  tones  were  deep  and  mellow,  as  befitted 
his  large,  deep-chested  frame.  Miss  Knight  listened  to 
them  with  a  sense  of  pleasure,  and  had  she  been  the  least 
vain  of  women  she  could  scarcely  have  failed  to  be 
touched  by  the  gentle  and  even  tender  cadence  of  his 
voice  as  he  uttered  her  name.  She  let  him  walk  on  by  her 
side  a  few  moments,  and  then  said  quietly : 

"Thank  you  for  your  frankness,  but  I  am  not  going  to 
emulate  it.  No  doubt  it  is  absurd  for  me,"  she  added, 
rather  bitterly,  "to  have  any  conventions  left,  since  I  am 
less  than  nobody,  and  very  poor.  But  I  used  to  have 
parents  and  friends  once,  and  lived  in  a  great  house,  sur- 
rounded by  servants  and  beautiful  things  to  look  at,  to 
eat,  and  to  wear.  I  actually  drove  daily  in  a  carriage,  too. 
and  rode  my  own  horse  in  the  Row.  Whereas  now  I  am 
glad  to  walk  until  my  omnibus  fare  is  two  pence.  But  I 
don't  think  mine  is  a  singular  case  in  these  days  when 
most  people  live  beyond  their  incomes.  Only  the  chil- 
dren born  with  silver  spoons  in  their  mouths  come  to 
look  upon  them  as  their  right,  and  never  properly  appre- 
ciate the  flavor  of  pewter." 

She  had  a  demure  little  way  of  making  any  remark  ap- 
proaching the  humorous  that  charmed  her  companion. 
In  spite  of  her  assumed  prim  coldness  there  was  an  in- 
tense femininity  about  her  that  would  have  made  even  a 
plain  woman  attractive  to  a  man.  Her  eyes  and  voice 
were  appealing  and  sympathetic,  even,  if  her  words  were 


A  Moonlight  Walk.  23 

meant  to  be  matter  of  fact  and  hard,  and  the  longer  the 
two  went  on  talking  the  more  soft  and  natural  her  man- 
ner became. 

"Are  you  getting  on  well  with  your  art  studies?"  he 
asked.  "I  should  think  it  must  be  very  difficult  to  really 
make  a  living  by  designs." 

"It  is,"  she  assented,  readily.  "But  luckily  I  work 
very  quickly,  and  lately  hand-painted  cards  and  albums 
have  been  the  fashion.  The  black  and  white  I  can  do  at 
night,  and  as  I  cannot  afford  models,  whenever  I  have  an 
hour  to  spare  I  draw  from  the  antique  at  the  Museum." 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  with  imperturbable  gravity, 
"that  you  did  not  admire  my  rendering  of  the  Clytie  which 
I  found  you  examining  yesterday  ?" 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly.     Then  she  laughed. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Read,"  she  said,  "but  I  sup- 
pose, as  you  are  a  writer,  you  are  composing  articles  about 
the  Museum,  and  only  pretend  to  draw  ?  Isn't  that  why 
you  come  to  the  galleries  ?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  steadily.  "That  is  not  my  reason. 
I  became  an  art  student  so  that  I  might  meet  you." 

She  did  not  seem  nearly  so  much  surprised  as  he  ex- 
pected. They  were  walking  along  Piccadilly  by  the 
Green  Park.  Lights  in  cabs  and  carriages  stretched  in  a 
long  line  before  them  like  a  bright  caterpillar  up  and 
down  the  slope,  but  not  many  pedestrians  passed  them. 
Miss  Knight  stopped  short  in  her  walk. 

"Mr.  Read,"  she  said,  gravely,  but  without  acrimony, 
"I  shall  be  very  much  disappointed  in  you  if  you  take  ad- 
vantage of  this  accidental  meeting  to  talk  in  a  way  I  do 
not  like." 

"Miss  Knight,"  he  said,  "I  am  sorry  if  you  do  not  like 
what  I  say,  but  I  must  speak  the  truth.  The  chief  wish 
of  my  life  is  to  know  you  and  become  your  friend." 


24  A  Moonlight  Walk. 

"You  will  never  be  that  if— if  you  try  to  talk  sentiment 
with  me." 

"Have  I  been  very  sentimental  yet?" 

They  stood  facing  each  other  in  the  broad  pathway. 
She  had  thrown  back  her  veil,  and  in  the  clear  moonlight 
her  face  looked  fairer  and  purer  than  ever.  But  she 
blushed  under  his  long  look  and  began  to  walk  on  faster 
than  before. 

"Can  we  not  be  real  friends?"  she  said,  impulsively. 
"I  mean  friends  without  any  silliness  or  sentiment." 

"You  mean  platonic "  he  began,  but  she  cut  him 

short,  shaking  her  head  impatiently. 

"No,  no!  The  word  platonic  always  suggests  spins- 
ters of  fifty,  ladylike  curates,  or  something  stolid  and  Ger- 
man. But  now  and  then  I  find  myself  wishing  I  had  a 
real  man  friend,  to  whom  I  could  go  for  advice,  and  who 
would  give  it  me,  forgetting  that  I  was  a  girl  at  all." 

"You  wouldn't  like  it  a  bit,  Miss  Knight,"  he  said,  de- 
cisively. "No  woman  respects  a  man  for  being  indiffer- 
ent to  her.  "  And  your  proposed  friend  would  certainly 
have  to  be  an  octogenarian  and  blind  to  adopt  such  an 
attitude  toward  you." 

"Friendship,  real  friendship,  I  mean,  between  a  young 
man  and  a  young  woman  is,  in  your  opinion  then,  im- 
possible?" she  said,  curling  her  mouth  disdainfully. 

"When  the  woman  is  you,  and  the  man  loves  her — 
yes." 

He  spoke  very  low,  but  she  heard  him  perfectly.  She 
caught  her  breath  for  a  moment.  She  was  in  part  sur- 
prised, in  part  annoyed,  and  yet  secretly  a  little  pleased 
He  was  so  big  and  protective  looking,  and  went  so 
straight  to  the  point,  this  last  quality  being  the  surest  to 
excite  a  woman's  approbation  in  a  wooer.  With  all  her 
demureness,  coquetry  was  latent  within  her,  for  she  looked 
up  quite  simply  and  said  in  unmoved  tones : 


A  Moonlight  Walk.  25 

"I  am  sorry  we  can't  be  friends,  Mr.  Read.  I  think  I 
will  take  the  omnibus  here." 

"The  two-penny  limit  is  not  reached  until  Sloane 
street,"  he  observed,  in  accents  as  sedulously  restrained  as 
her  own.  "It  would  be  very  unfair  to  me,  Miss  Knight, 
to  leave  me  at  this  juncture.  It  would  be  indeed  telling 
me  that  I  had  seriously  offended  you ;  and  I  would  not  do 
that  for  the  world." 

They  walked  on  a  little  while  in  silence!  Then  she  ex- 
claimed energetically : 

"I  hate  this  lovemaking  element,  which  will  come  in 
and  spoil  everything." 

"It  is  the  one  thing  which  idealizes  life  and  makes  it 
worth  living.     And  you  will  find  it  out  some  day." 

"Why  should  you  suppose  so?  Women  can  get  on 
without  men  a  great  deal  better  than  men  imagine.  I 
think  the  silliest  line  in  all  poetry  is  Byron's,  about  love 
being  a  woman's  whole  existence.  It  may  have  meant 
something  in  his  time,  when  girls  did  nothing  but  play 
the  harp,  make  wax  flowers,  and  pose  in  ringlets  for 
Books  of  Beauty;  but  at  this  end  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, hundreds  of  English  women  have  to  be  breadwin- 
ners, and  have  no  time  to  press  dead  flowers  and  weep 
over  love  letters  tied  up  with  blue  ribbon." 

"Breadwinning  doesn't  prevent  men  from  falling  in 
love,"  he  retorted.  "Why,  then,  should  it  crush  all  ten- 
der feeling  out  of  women?  Believe  me,  Miss  Knight, 
only  a  woman  can  make  a  man  happy,  and  only  a  man 
can  make  a  woman  happy." 

"I  am  happy,"  she  exclaimed,  indignantly  turning  on 
him  her  shining  gray  eyes.  "At  least,"  she  faltered  as 
she  met  his  gaze,  "I — I  am  very  busy  and  quite  contented. 
The  two-penny  limit  is  reached.  Here  is  Sloane  street. 
Thank  you,  and  good-by." 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  holding,  for  the  first  time,  her 


26  A  Moonlight  Walk. 

slim,  strong  hand  in  his.    "But  we  shall  meet  on  Monday 
at  the  Museum,  shall  we  not?" 

"Who  knows  what  a  day  may  bring  forth?"  she  re- 
turned enigmatically,  and  sprang  into  her  omnibus,  little 
guessing  the  deep  significance  which  after  events  would 
attach  to  her  light  words  of  farewell. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE     OTHER     MAN. 

Monday's  post  brought  to  Aylmer  a  letter  from  the 
provincial  photographer  who  had  taken  the  portrait  of 
Miss  Phyllis  Knight.  The  man  inclosed  a  copy  of  the 
picture,  the  number  of  which  Aylmer  had  forwarded,  and 
offered  to  send  on  several  others  of  the  lady  "in  stage 
costume." 

"Miss  Phyllis  Knight's  appearance  was  so  extremely 
prepossessing,"  the  photographer  declared,  "that  I  asked 
permission  to  take  her  in  several  attitudes  when  she  first 
passed  through  this  town  with  the  'Settled  for  Life'  com- 
pany about  a  year  ago.  I  shall  be  all  the  more  ready  to 
send  you  specimens  to  choose  from,  as  I  have  a  great 
many  copies  on  my  hands,  printed  by  order  of  the  gen- 
tleman to  whom  Miss  Knight  was  united  in  marriage  dur- 
ing the  course  of  her  last  visit." 

Aylmer  put  down  the  letter  at  this  point.  He  had  read 
enough. 

"What  a  fool — what  a  miserable  fool  I  have  been,"  he 
exclaimed,  rising  and  going  to  the  window,  out  of  which 
he  stared  blankly  at  the  houses  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street.  "Just  because  she  didn't  wear  a  wedding  ring 
I  never  supposed  that  she  was  married,  and  even  now," 
he  added,  thoughtfully,  "I  can't  believe  it." 

He  was  striving  to  recall  her  every  look  and  gesture. 
He  could  not,  and  would  not,  readily  believe  that  she 
could  be  another  man's  wife.  And  yet  here  before  him 
lay  the  photographer's  letter  and  the  portrait,  upon  which 
her  name  was  printed. 


28  The  Other  Man. 

With  a  feeling  that  his  castle  in  the  air  had  fallen  in 
ruins  about  his  head,  he  again  took  up  the  photographer's 
letter. 

"No  doubt  newly  married  people  indulge  at  first  in  ex- 
travagances which  they  afterward  repent,"  the  man  con- 
tinued, "and  so  Miss  Knight's  husband,  I  daresay,  for- 
got the  cost  when  he  ordered  six  dozen  of  her  photo- 
graphs in  different  positions.  That  was  more  than  six 
months  ago,  and  when  I  sent  the  copies  to  the  address 
which  he  furnished  me,  they  were  returned,  marked 
'name  unknown.'  This,  sir,  has  been  a  serious  loss  to 
me,  and  in  case  you  should  meet  Miss  Phyllis  Knight,  or 
her  husband,  Mr.  Sergius  Trevelyan,  I  should  be  deeply 
indebted  to  you  if  you  would  remind  them  of  their  order, 
as  I  am  not  in  a  position  to  stand  the  serious  loss  of  time 
and  money  involved  in  the  affair." 

Aylmer  Read's  breakfast  was  brought  to  him  at  this 
juncture  by  the  elderly  woman  who  "did  for"  the  single 
gentlemen  in  the  Hereford  street  Chambers.  This  par- 
ticular single  gentleman  astonished  her  by  immediately 
clapping  his  hat  on  his  head  and  marching  out  of  the 
house.  A  "facer"  such  as  this  must  be  confronted  in  the 
open  air,  free  from  the  all-pervading  smell  of  the  per- 
petual bacon  and  eggs  which  adorned  his  bachelor  break- 
fast table. 

Outside  he  made  his  way  mechanically  to  the  Embank- 
ment, and  watched  the  gray,  barge-laden  tide  as  he  told 
himself  again  what  a  fool  he  had  been. 

A  married  actress ! 

He  had  waited  until  seven-and-twenty  to  find  his  ideal 
in  Phyllis  Knight,  who  was  ashamed  to  wear  her  wedding 
ring,  and  whose  husband,  with  the  fanciful,  theatrical- 
sounding  name,  neglected  to  pay  for  goods  he  had  or- 
dered ! 

But  Aylmer's  disloyalty  was  short-lived.     It  was  not 


The  Other  Man.  29 

the  fault  of  his  fair-haired  ideal  if  her  husband  was  un- 
worthy of  her,  as  he  somewhat  hastily  decided  that  Mr. 
Sergius  Trevelyan  must  be.  He  felt  certain  that  such  a 
woman  would  never  discontinue  to  wear  her  wedding 
ring  without  good  cause.  Perhaps  her  husband  had  al- 
ready deserted  her;  if  not,  how  was  he  so  remiss  as  to 
permit  her  to  walk  home  through  West  End  streets  un- 
attended? She  was  very  poor  and  very  hard-worked. 
Why  did  he  let  her  strain  every  nerve,  rising  early  and 
working  late,  when  he  should  be  supporting  her  in  that 
comfort  and  elegance  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed  ? 

Aylmer's  heart  burned  with  pity  for  her  and  with  indig- 
nation against  her  husband,  as  he  recalled  the  thinness  of 
her  beautiful  face  and  the  tired  shadows  under  her  eyes. 
His  heart  ached  for  his  own  disappointment,  but  he  felt 
desperately  anxious  to  help  her  in  her  troubles.  In  his 
position  as  journalist,  constantly  meeting  with  other  men 
in  the  same  profession,  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  might 
be  the  means  of  putting  work  in  her  way.  There  was  no 
effort  he  would  hesitate  from  making  in  his  longing  to  be 
of  use  to  her  and  to  prove  to  her  the  possibility  of  a  dis- 
interested friendship,  which  he  had  owned  to  be  impossi- 
ble so  long  as  he  had  believed  her  to  be  free.  She  had 
often  wished  for  a  real  man  friend,  Had  she  not  said  so  ? 
And  the  extreme  difficulty  and  delicacy  of  the  position  *of 
friend  to  a  young,  lovely  and  neglected  married  woman 
did  not  for  the  moment  occur  to  him. 

He  hied  himself  at  once  to  the  Museum.  Her  cold 
manner,  her  attitude  of  reserved  self-defense  were  at  once 
explained  by  her  unhappy  married  experiences.  It  was 
not  as  if  she  had  in  any  way  encouraged  his  attentions  or 
endeavored  to  pass  herself  off  as  an  unmarried  woman. 
Had  she  loved  her  husband,  Aylmer  argued,  she  would 
assuredly  have  worn  her  wedding  ring  openly  before  the 
world.     She  was  not  even  in  mourning ;  he  could  not  hug 


30  The  Other  Man. 

« 

the  hope  that  blue  serge  represented  the  costume  of  a 
widow  for  a  man  who  had  been  alive  a  little  more  than 
six  months  ago.  It  was  an  intensely  painful  and  disa- 
greeable thought  to  remember  that  she  had  been  mar- 
ried at  all,  and  seemed  to  prove  that  he  had  greatly  over- 
rated his  powers  of  perception  when  he  believed  that  he 
had  read  in  her  face  not  only  childlike  innocence,  but  an 
unconsciousness  of  the  very  passion  of  love. 

The  knowledge  of  her  profession  was  also  an  ugly  reve- 
lation. Aylmer  was  too  sensible  to  connect  her  calling 
with  any  reproach  or  slur  upon  her  character,  but  he 
greatly  disliked  the  thought  that  her  mingled  demure- 
ness  and  impulsiveness  were  the  result  of  a  dramatic 
training  and  not  the  natural  expression  of  her  feelings. 
At  the  same  time,  the  fascination  that  she  exercised  over 
him  was  so  strong  that  even  now,  when  all  hope  of  win- 
ning her  seemed  to  be  utterly  swept  away,  he  felt  that  life 
would  be  impossible  without,  at  least,  her  friendship,  and 
that  no  woman  would  ever  succeed  in  wholly  effacing  her 
image  from  his  mind. 

Ten  o'clock  found  him  in  the  Museum  sculpture  gal- 
leries, but  no  opportunity  for  exercising  his  capability  for 
disinterested  friendship  was  offered  him.  The  girl  in  blue 
serge  came  not  that  day,  or  the  next,  or  yet  the  next 
again.  Days  grew  into  weeks,  and  Aylmer  left  off  haunt- 
ing the  galleries,  contenting  himself  with  occasional  sur- 
prise visits,  in  the  hope  that  she  might  have  returned. 
He  searched  the  Museum  attendance  book,  and  even 
made  inquiries  of  the  curators,  but  all  to  no  effect.  Miss 
Knight  had  not  come  back,  and  the  British  Museum 
knew  her  no  more. 

All  that  Aylmer  could  be  sure  of  was  that  a  Miss  Phyl- 
lis Knight  or  Mrs.  Sergius  Trevelyan  lived  or  had  lived 
somewhere  within  a  two-penny  omnibus  drive  from 
Sloane  street,  presumably,  therefore,  in  the  Hammer- 


The  Other  Man.  31 

smith  or  West  Kensington  districts ;  that  she  was  bewil- 
deringly  beautiful  and  extremely  fascinating,  very  poor, 
very  reserved,  and  that  she  earned  her  living  by  acting  in 
small  theatrical  touring  companies  and  by  executing 
sketches  and  designs.  Had  sne  been  single,  he  would 
most  certainly  have  followed  up  such  slight  clues  as  were 
in  his  possession.  But  of  what  use  to  track  down  a  mar- 
ried woman,  and  one,  too,  whom  he  could  not  see  with- 
out emotion?  Rather  ought  he  to  rejoice  that  such  a 
disturbing  element  had  been  removed  from  his  life,  and 
to  take  up  its  monotonous  threads  with  a  feeling  of  relief 
at  trouble  and  turmoil  escaped. 

And  yet,  however  he  might  philosophise,  Aylmer  knew 
that  in  his  secret  heart  he  cherished  the  conviction  that 
fate  would  throw  them  together  again,  and  that  some  day 
he  should  be  called  upon  to  answer  the  appeal  for  help  in 
her  luminous  gray  eyes. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN. 

After  Miss  Knight  parted  from  Aylmer  Read  on  that 
eventful  Saturday  night  and  entered  a  Hammersmith  om- 
nibus, she  waited  until  her  cavalier  was  out  of  hearing 
before  giving  the  direction  "Severn  Road." 

Her  mouth  curved  into  a  half  smile  of  approbation  as 
she  peeped  discreetly  from  the  door  and  saw  her  erstwhile 
companion  standing  on  the  curb  in  the  moonlight,  raising 
his  hat  from  his  curly  fair  hair  in  a  parting  salutation. 

"Delightfully  big  he  looks,"'  was  her  mental  comment. 
"I  expect  living  all  these  years  in  the  country  has  made 
him  so  nice  and  chivalrous.  His  face  is  not  exactly  hand- 
some, but  his  figure  makes  up  for  it.  I  like  that  yellow 
mustache ;  but  it's  almost  a  pity  his  eyes  are  so  dark."  One 
can  see  the  emotions  in  light  eyes.  Brown  are  merely  like 
so  many  brandy-balls." 

From  which  criticisms  it  may  be  inferred  that  in  spite 
of  her  classic  profile  and  the  mingled  adoration  and  rever- 
ence she  had  inspired  in  Aylmer  Read,  Miss  Knight  was 
still  to  some  extent  youthful  and  frivolous  in  her  ideas. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  seat,  a  little  tired,  but  in  a 
pleased  and  happy  humor,  until,  the  Albert  Hall,  Kensing- 
ton Church,  Holland  Park  and  Addison  Road  having  been 
successfully  passed,  the  omnibus  drew  up  at  her  destina- 
tion. 

Severn  Road  was  an  extremely  uninviting  thorough- 
fare, given  over  to  advertisement-covered  hoarding  and 
half-finished  blocks  of  staring  red  brick  residential  flats ;  a 


The  Wanderer's  Return.  33 

considerable  space  of  uneven  waste  ground  intervened  be- 
tween these  erections,  speculative  builders  having  begun 
them  on  a  large  scale  and  come  to  grief  before  their  com- 
pletion, and  two  large  and  ugly  blocks  of  board  schools 
likewise  disfigured  the  locality.  Here,  hidden  behind  an 
open  space  inclosed  by  a  tall  wooden  fence,  given  up  to 
huge,  colored  posters  advocating  popular  medicines  and 
plays,  two  blocks  of  unpretending  one-storied,  semi-de- 
tached houses,  bordered  by  gardens  back  and  front,  and 
facing  a  row  of  smaller  and  meaner  dwelling  places,  stood 
in  a  "left  behind  by  the  tide"  fashion,  awaiting  the  in- 
evitable moment  when  they  should  be  swept  away  by  some 
enterprising  builder,  and  the  site  devoted  to  other  massive 
red  brick  mansions  of  the  most  approved  modern  style. 

"Lockhart  Cottages"  was  the  name  painted  on  the  wall 
of  that  particular  one  of  these  little  old  houses  which  was 
nearest  to  the  high-road,  from  which,  however,  they  were 
completely  concealed.  As  if  to  emphasize  their  unsuit- 
ability  among  these  recent  palatial  surroundings,  the  ab- 
surd little  houses  stood  a  long  way  back  from  the  Severn 
Road,  and  their  front  garden  gates  opened  only  on  a  rough 
piece  of  ground  leading  to  a  mews,  and  rendered  intoler- 
ably noisy  out  of  lesson  hours  by  the  shouts  of  the  children 
from  the  schools  adjoining. 

But  the  way  was  quiet  enough  at  midnight  as  Miss 
Knight  hurried  by  the  towering  blocks  of  flats  and  the 
waste  ground  and  the  hoardings  until  she  reached  the  most 
distant  of  the  four  semi-detached  cottages,  divided  by  a 
high  brick  wall  from  the  Board  Schools,  and  shut  in  as 
carefully  both  at  the  back  and  at  the  front,  with  walls 
edged  with  broken  glass  bottles,  as  though  the  house 
within  was  of  great  value  and  importance,  instead  of  being 
a  modest  relic  of  the  past,  at  a  rental  of  £26  a  year. 

Through  a  space  of  lattice  work  at  the  top  of  the  door 
in  the  garden  wall  Miss  Knight  could  see  a  light  shining 


34  The  Wanderer's  Return. 

through  the  red  curtains  of  the  sitting-room  window. 
Those  Turkey-red  curtains  were  an  idea  of  hers,  to  give 
a  homelike  warmth  and  "color  to  the  little  house  when  the 
lamps  were  lit  at  night,  for  Lockhart  Cottages  had  ever 
been  innocent  of  gas.  Miss  Knight  lifted  the  latch  and 
entered  a  small,  well-kept  garden,  in  which  young  ash 
trees  and  ivy  fought  for  all  sustenance  from  the  ground, 
and  made  life  a  hard  struggle  for  the  geraniums,  pansies, 
daisies  and  forget-me-nots  in  the  tiny  flower  beds.  After 
carefully  drawing  the  bolt  in  the  gate,  Miss  Knight 
slipped  her  latch-key  as  noiselessly  as  possible  into  the 
dark-green  door  of  the  house.  Evidently  she  was  anx- 
ious not  to  disturb  someone,  for  she  fastened  the  door 
with  the  same  care  and  quiet,  and  passed  softly  into  a 
little  front  sitting  room,  where,  upon  a  round  table  by  the 
window,  her  supper  was  waiting  for  her  on  a  snow-white 
cloth.  Bread  and  butter,  watercress,  cheese  and  filtered 
water  formed  the  simple  fare  provided ;  but  Miss  Knight 
had  a  healthy  girl's  appetite,  and  ate  her  supper  thank- 
fully, while  she  read  through  a  daily  newspaper  in  the 
first  spare  half  hour  of  a  busy  day. 

A  cottage  piano  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  of 
which  the  furniture  was  cheap  and  simple  in  the  ex- 
treme, but  not  without  traces  of  refined  and  cultivated 
tastes  of  its  inmates.  Book-shelves  of  plain  deal,  neatly 
bordered  by  leather  and  brass  nails,  abounded,  closely 
packed  with  well-worn  volumes  in  English,  French  and 
German ;  poems,  novels,  educational  works,  paper-covered 
plays  and  several  books  of  reference  on  art.  On  a  small 
side  table  a  paint  box  and  sketching  block  suggested  the 
nature  of  Miss  Knight's  home  employment,  as  did  the 
hand-painted  flower  panels  which  beautified  the  door,  and 
some  spirited  black-and-white  drawings  hanging  on  the 
walls. 

The  young  artist  seemed  by  no  means  anxious  to  retire 


The  Wanderer's  Return.  35 

to  rest,  in  spite  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  After  finish- 
ing her  supper,  she  removed  the  cloth  and  plates  to  the 
kitchen,  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and,  returning  to  the 
sitting-room,  put  pen,  ink  and  paper  on  the  table  and  sat 
down  to  write. 

Before  doing  so,  however,  she  slowly  drew  out,  one  by 
one,  the  many  hairpins  which  held  in  place  the  twists  and 
coils  of  her  daintily  dressed  hair  until  it  tumbled  in  soft, 
brown  waves,  shining  golden  in  the  high  lights,  about  her 
shoulders  and  far  down  below  her  waist.  She  uttered  a 
little  sigh  of  relief  as  she  finished  this  task.  She  could 
think  more  freely  with  the  weight  of  luxuriant  tresses 
lowered  from  her  brain,  and  she  smiled  in  anticipation  of 
what  she  was  about  to  write  as  she  sat  twisting  her  hair 
into  a  loose  plait  to  hang  down  her  back  for  the  night. 

"My  own  darling,"  so  her  letter  began. 

"It  is  getting  on  one  o'clock.  Cresswell  is  in  bed  and 
the  house  is  wonderfully  quiet,  but  I  must  write  and  tell 
you  of  a  little  thing  which  happened  to  me  to-day,  as  I 
know  you  will  be  interested  and  amused,  and  I  shall  have 
no  time  to-morrow.  My  story  is  about  a  Man.  Actual- 
ly. Don't  be  alarmed.  He  is  really  a  stranger.  I  don't 
think  I  mentioned  in  my  former  letters  a  very  big,  splen- 
didly-made, fair-haired  male  student  who  recently  came  to 
draw  at  the  British  Museum,  and  stared  at  me  a  good 
deal.  Words  altogether  fail  to  describe  the  nature  of  his 
attempts  at  art.  The  white  chalk  objects  in  three-cor- 
nered hats  with  which  the  Board  School  children  decorate 
our  garden  wall  show  infinitely  more  artistic  power  than 
this  big  young  man  possesses.  Until  I  looked  at  his  al- 
leged copy  of  the  'Clytie'  I  did  not  believe  that  any  sane 
person  could  draw  so  badly.  But  perhaps  you  will  say 
before  I  come  to  the  end  of  my  story  that  this  young  man 
is  not  sane." 


36  The  Wanderer's  Return. 

At  the  point  the  writer  paused  and  looked  up  quickly, 
listening  intently. 

Of  course  it  must  only  be  fancy,  she  told  herself.  And 
yet  it  seemed  as  though  her  own  name,  uttered  in  faint, 
wailing  accents,  hung  upon  the  night  air. 

The  sound  died  away.  Miss  Knight  decided  that  she 
was  tired  and  nervous,  and  that  her  imagination  was  play- 
ing her  tricks  as  she  settled  herself  to  her  letter  again. 

"I  told  you  in  my  last  that  I  had  some  work  promised 
me  on  the  Morning  Illustrated  on  the  strength  of  some 
pen-and-ink  drawings  of  street  scenes  I  took  up  to  the 
office.  They  suggested  that  I  should  send  in  some 
sketches  of  the  costumes  worn  in  'The  Hermit'  the  new 
play  at  the  Grassmarket  Theatre,  produced  to-night. 
Well,  I  did  the  work,  and  it  was  very  interesting.  I  will 
tell  you  all  about  it  in  another  letter.  But,  as  I  know  you 
are  always  more  interested  in  anything  approaching  a  ro- 
mance than  in  serious  subjects,  I  will  get  on  to  what  hap- 
pened when  I  left  the  theatre  after  the  third  act,  as  the 
principal  characters  did  not  change  their  dresses  in  the 
fourth.  Close  to  the  entrance  some  horrid,  tipsy  young 
men  tried  to  prevent  me  from  passing.  I  had  my  old 
serge  gown  on  and  a  thick,  black  veil,  but  I  suppose  my 
portfolio  showed  these  polished  gentlemen  that  I  was  a 
working  girl ;  and  in  any  case  ladies  of  education  and  re- 
finement are  not  expected  to  be  abroad  at  night  in  our 
highly  civilized  capital  without  being  insulted.  But  quite 
suddenly,  as  I  was  growing  desperately  frightened  and 
mad,  a  guardian  angel  in  evening  dress  and  a  light  over- 
coat swooped  down,  dismissed  my  persecutors  with  a 
wave  of  his  magic  walking-stick,  and  lo !  I  was  marching 
along  Piccadilly,  arm-in-arm  with  a  gentleman  who  ad- 
dressed me  by  name,  but  whom  I  had  never  before  spoken 
to — none  other  than  my  big  fellow-student  at  the  Mu- 
seum." 


The  Wanderer's  Return.  37 

Miss  Knight  was  warming  to  her  work.  Her  pen  flew 
over  her  paper  as  she  bent  over  her  letter,  a  smile  of 
amusement  hovering  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  the 
lamplight  falling  obliquely  under  a  green  shade  upon  her 
glossy  hair.  Lockhart  Cottages  after  midnight  were 
wonderfully  quiet,  save  for  nomads  of  the  feline  race  and 
the  faint  rumble  of  passing  vehicles  in  the  main  road. 
The  charwoman,  the  lady  who  mangled  at  home,  the 
shoemaker  and  the  chimney  sweep  inhabiting  the  mean 
little  terrace  opposite  were  all  sleeping  off  the  libatiofts 
which  marked  Saturday  pay-day.  And  yet  the  girl  in 
blue  serge,  sitting  up  to  write  her  letter,  could  not  rid 
herself  of  the  conviction  that  somewhere  near  to  her  some 
one  was  feebly  calling  on  her  name. 

Rising  suddenly,  she  went  to  the  hall  door  and  listened. 
She  did  not  dare  to  open  it,  having  a  great  fear  of  burg- 
lars, although  there  was  little  indeed  in  the  house  worth 
stealing.  Hearing  nothing,  she  crept  upstairs  and  lis- 
tened outside  Cresswell's  door  to  the  heavy,  regular 
breathing  of  the  old  servant  within.  Then,  reassured  by 
the  consciousness  of  some  one  within  call,  she  opened  the 
back  door  and  looked  out  into  the  garden. 

Through  the  broad  leaves  of  the  chestnuts  she  stared 
up  at  the  moon  sailing  in  a  silver  sea  of  cloud ;  it  was  a 
night  for  tenderness,  for  lovers'  meetings  and  faltering 
love-vows;  but  this  girl  with  the  changing  hazel-gray 
eyes,  supple  form  and  shining  hair,  dared  think  of  none 
of  these  things  as  she  gazed  into  the  peaceful  sky  above 
her.  Yet  a  sense  of  something  wanting  in  her  life  made 
her  heave  a  little  sigh  as  she  closed  and  fastened  the  door 
before  returning  to  her  letter. 

.  "I  couldn't  very  well  send  him  away,"  she  wrote  on, 
"for  he  was  very  kind,  and  a  gentleman.  I  should  like 
him  for  a  friend,  but  I  suppose  that  isn't  possible,  for  on 


38  The  Wanderer's  Return. 

the  way  home  he  actually  told  me  that  he  loved  me.  Of 
course  I  was  very  angry  with  him." 

Miss  Knight  put  down  her  pen  at  this  point. 

"That  isn't  true,"  she  said  to  herself,  reflectively,  as  she 
reread  her  lact  statement.  "I  was  not  in  the  least  angry 
with  Mr.  Read." 

Leaning  her  elbow  on  the  table,  she  rested  her  cheek  on 
her  hand,  and  began  to  think  about  him.  In  spite  of  her 
nickname  of  "Diana  the  Disdainful,"  it  is  to  be  feared  that 
Miss  Knight  was  by  no  means  so  adamantine  where  the 
other  sex  was  concerned  as  she  appeared.  Over  her  fair 
face  one  very  becoming  blush  followed  another  as  she  re- 
called the  look  in  Aylmer's  eyes  when  they  met  her  own, 
and  the  sound  of  his  voice  as  he  spoke  of  his  love." 

Of  course  it  was  a  mere  fancy  on  his  part,  this  love  at 
first  sight,  she  told  herself.  Mr.  Read  was  doubtless  an 
impressionable  young  man  and  would  speedily  forget  all 
about  his  sudden  infatuation. 

"Meantime  I  have  to  face  him  on  Monday,"  she  re- 
flected, not  as  though  she  disliked  the  idea.  "I  wonder 
how  it  will  end  ?" 

Her  letter  lay  before  her  unfinished.  She  was  tired  and 
sleepy,  and  almost  inclined  to  conclude  it  in  the  morning 
when  a  sound,  unmistakable  this  time,  struck  upon  her 
ears  in  the  night  silence. 

"For  heaven's  sake  let  me  in !" 

Hoarse,  broken  though  the  voice  was,  she  knew  fhe  ac- 
cents well.  With  a  blanched  face  she  sprang  to  her  feet, 
slipped  the  chain  and  bolts  of  the  front  door,  and  flew  to 
the  garden  gate.  Turning  the  key  with  shaking  fingers, 
she  stretched  out  her  arms,  peering  into  the  darkness  with 
eyes  accustomed  to  the  light. 

"My  darling !    Where  are  you  ?" 

"Here,  here!" 

By  the  gate,  wrapped  in  a  long  cloak,  bowed  and  bro- 


The  Wanderer's  Return.  39 

ken,  there  cowered  a  trembling  figure  which  seemed  to 
shrink  from  the  touch  of  her  encircling  arms.  With  a 
terrible  stab  of  pain  and  apprehension  at  her  heart,  Miss 
Knight  raised  the  crouching  form,  and,  with  the  words  of 
welcome  frozen  upon  her  lips,  pushed  open  the  door  of 
their  home. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  STORY  OF  LONDON. 

"Dorothy !" 

"Phyllis !" 

The  sisters  were  seated  together  on  the  sofa,  clasped  in 
each  other's  arms,  the  younger  shaken  by  a  convulsive 
outburst  of  weeping,  the  elder  striving  to  soothe  her  and 
to  keep  back  her  own  tears. 

It  was  eight  months  since  they  had  parted ;  yet  in  that 
comparatively  short  space  of  time  a  terrible  change  for  the 
worse  had  taken  place  in  Phyllis  Knight's  appearance. 

So  greatly,  indeed,  had  she  altered  that  the  likeness  be- 
tween the  sisters,  normally  so  great  as  to  be  bewildering, 
seemed  almost  lost  in  the  contrast  between  the  clear,  pink 
pallor  of  the  young  artist  and  the  ashen-gray  of  her  sis- 
ter's face.  In  spite  of  the  warmth  of  the  summer  night, 
Phyllis'  hands  were  cold;  Dorothy  slipped  on  her  knees 
before  her,  and  tried  to  warm  them  with  her  lips. 

"My  poor  child!  My  poor  darling!  You  have  been 
ill,  terribly  ill,  I  can  see ;  and  you  did  not  tell  me !  How 
could  you  keep  it  from  me  ?" 

"It  isn't  that,  Dorothy,"  her  sister  whispered.  "It  is 
my  heart" — she  pressed  her  thin  hands  against  her  breast 
as  she  spoke — "my  heart  is  broken." 

Her  gray  eyes  were  distended  with  despair.  Incessant 
weeping  had  destroyed  all  control  of  her  features,  and  her 
mouth  quivered  pitifully  even  while  she  was  not  speaking. 

"Oh,  Dolly!  Dolly!"  she  moaned,  stretching  out  her 
arms,  not  round  her  sister,  but  in  the  empty  air  above 
her.    "What  shall  I  do?    What  shall  I  do ?" 


A  Story  of  London.  41 

She  was  a  little  taller  than  Dorothy  and  less  regularly 
beautiful.  Her  pretty  mouth,  now  all  blurred  with  weep- 
ing, was  far  smaller  than  her  sister's,  and  the  look  of  ap- 
pealing femininity,  which  now  and  then  softened  Miss 
Knight's  pure  loveliness,  was  far  more  strongly  empha- 
sized in  Phyllis,  her  junior  by  one  year.  In  complexion 
Phyllis  was  less  fair,  and  her  hair,  by  nature  brown,  had 
been  dyed  to  a  pale  gold  color,  at  variance  with  her  dark 
eyebrows  and  eyelashes.  Her  dress  was  of  black  alpaca, 
ill-fitting  and  shabby  in  the  extreme,  and  the  cloak  she 
was  wearing  was  of  the  commonest  black  material,  and 
wholly  inappropriate  for  a  day  in  June. 

Dorothy's  eyes  noted  these  details  with  acute  anxiety. 
As  Phyllis  stretched  her  arms  above  her  head  she  caught 
sight  of  a  thin  line  of  gold  on  the  third  finger  of  her  left 
hand. 

"You  are  married !" 

Something  of  reproach,  but  something  of  relief  also, 
rang  through  Miss  Knight's  tones.  Nothing  short  of  a 
tragic  catastrophe  could  have  transformed  dimpled,  co- 
quettish, laughing  Phyllis  into  this  worn  and  despairing 
woman.  But  there  are  sorrows  and  sorrows.  If  only  it 
should  prove  that  Phyllis  had  a  bad  husband,  or  that  he 
was  dead,  it  would  be  terrible,  but 

"That  wedding  ring  means  nothing,"  whispered  Phyllis, 
faintly.  "Don't  look  at  me  like  that,  Dorothy.  Only 
listen  first  before  you  judge  me.  Let  me  tell  you  every- 
thing from  the  beginning  before  my  mind  begins  to  wan- 
der, as  it  so  often  does  now.  And  don't  go  away  from 
me.  Sit  here  by  me  and  hold  me  to  you.  Oh,  Dolly! 
Dolly !     Why  did  I  ever  leave  you  ?" 

Dorothy  wrapped  her  arms  about  her  sister,  and  pil- 
lowed her  cheek  upon  her  heart.  Her  pharisaical  instinct 
had  been  but  momentary ;  she  was  an  intensely  proud  girl, 
to  whom  honor  was  far  dearer  than  life,  but  she  loved  her 


42  A  Story  of  London, 

sister  more  dearly  than  any  living  thing.  Phyllis  had 
the  weaker,  gentler  nature  of  the  two ;  sisterly  love,  ambi- 
tion and  art  had  never  proved  enough  for  her ;  vain,  trust- 
ful, emotional  and  innocent,  it  would  seem  that  nature 
had  marked  her  out  as  the  victim  of  a  man's  treachery 
and  her  own  folly. 

"Oh,  it  is  so  good  to  be  with  you  again,"  she  mur- 
mured. "If  I  could  only  die  now,  this  moment,  as  I 
soon  shall  do !  Dolly,  if  it  was  wrong  of  me  to  deceive 
you,  you  can't  think  how  I  have  been  punished.  To- 
night, do  you  know,  I  have  walked  all  the  way  from 
Richmond  here.  I  have  worn  out  my  boots,  and  my  feet 
are  so  sore.  I  shall  limp  for  days.  I  had  to  come  at 
night  lest  people  should  laugh  at  me ;  I  looked  so  silly  in 
these  clothes.  They  are  my  landlady's.  She  let  me  have 
them  because  I  gave  her  all  my  own  pretty  things  for 
rent.  And,  after  all,  it  doesn't  matter  how  I  look  now, 
Dolly.  For  I  am  deserted  and  cast-off,  and  dying,  dear, 
dying.     Thank  goodness  for  that !" 

Tears  rolled  down  from  Dorothy's  eyes  over  her  sis- 
ter's thin  face.  Phyllis  stretched  up  her  hand  and  stroked 
the  other's  cheek. 

"I  knew  you  would  be  sorry,"  she  murmured;  "and 
when  I  felt  as  I  crawled  along,  all  through  Kew,  Chis- 
wick  and  Hammersmith  to-night,  that  my  feet  could  not 
carry  me  farther,  I  told  myself,  'Dolly  will  be  sorry.'  No 
one  has  been  sorry  for  me  yet.  They  seem  to  think  it 
was  all  my  own  fault.  But  you  will  listen  to  me  and  you 
will  understand." 

"I  will  try,  dear.  But  you  are  not  strong  enough  to 
talk.     Come  to  bed  now  and  tell  me  all  in  the  morning." 

"No,  no!  You  must  hear  everything,"  Phyllis  ex- 
claimed excitedly.  "I  couldn't  sleep  without  telling  you. 
I  have  deceived  you  all  the  time.  You  know  I  pretended 
that  I  should  be  playing  at  Christmas  time?    That  was 


A  Story  of  London.  43 

not  true.  We  had  a  fortnight's  vacation,  and  I  spent  at 
the  Hotel  Metropole,  at  Brighton,  what  I  thought  was  my 
honeymoon." 

"What  you  thought  ?" 

"Yes,  yes !  I  am  going  to  tell  you  everything  from  the 
beginning.  But  before  you  can  forgive  me,  try  to  under- 
stand the  awful  dullness  of  a  theatrical  tour  with  a  suc- 
cessful London  piece.  People  think  that  stage  life  is  so 
amusing;  of  course  I  thought  it  would  be  when  I  would 
become  an  actress  two  years  ago,  in  spite  of  all  your  pray- 
ers. I  expected  excitement,  fun,  love-making,  flirta- 
tions, splendid  offers  of  marriage,  brilliant  successes  and 
heaps  of  money,  my  portraits  in  all  the  shop  windows, 
and  an  earl  at  my  feet.  What  a  fool  I  was !  I  can't  tell 
you  how  dull,  how  dreary,  this  touring  life  has  been.  Of 
course,  I  wouldn't  own  it  to  you  in  my  letters,  because 
you  would  have  wanted  me  to  leave  the  stage,  and  I  still 
hoped  to  be  another  Neilsdn.  You  saw  the  'Settled  for 
Life'  company  at  the  railway  station  last  September. 
You  yourself  thought  the  men  looked  common  and  odd, 
with  their  blue  chins  and  green  overcoats  and  schoolboy 
noisiness.  You  yourself  would  have  said  that  he — Mr. 
Trevelyan,  I  mean — looked  very  different  from  the  others 
if  you  had  seen  him." 

"Sergius  Trevelyan,"  exclaimed  Miss  Knight.  "That 
was  the  name  of  the  man  who  played  a  small  part,  and 
was  to  join  the  company  at  Liverpool,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"Yes.  There  were  four  married  couples,  and  an  old 
woman  who  got  tipsy  sometimes,  and  Mr.  Trevelyan  and 
I.  I  tried  to  lodge  with  the  old  woman,  but  she  got 
angry  with  me  because  I  would  not  spend  money  on 
spirits  for  her.  Nobody  liked  me.  The  women  said  I 
gave  myself  airs  and  called  me  'Miss  Innocent,'  because  I 
would  not  laugh  at  the  disgusting  stories  they  told  each 
other  in  the  dressing  rooms  and  in  the  train.    That  trav- 


44  A  Story  of  London.    • 

eling  on  Sunday  is  dreadful.  The  men  smoke  and  play 
cards,  and  excite  attention,  and  contempt,  too,  I  think,  at 
the  railway  stations  by  making  themselves  conspicuous 
and  talking  very  loudly.  And  except  when  they  are  tell- 
ing coarse  stories,  the  only  things  they  all  talk  about  are 
the  lodgings  they  are  going  to  have  at  the  next  town  and 
the  lodging  they  had  at  the  last,  and  what  the  cooking 
was  like,  and  how  much  they  had  to  pay.  Sometimes, 
too,  they  talk  about  the  extraordinary  hits  they  each  and 
all  of  them  have  made  in  different  parts,  and  how  dread- 
fully the  stage  is  going  down.  But  in  general  it  is  lodg- 
ings, lodgings  all  the  time.  Because  I  had  been  acting- 
only  two  years  they  all  looked  down  upon  me,  as  though 
that  fact  were  something  to  be  ashamed  of,  and  called 
me  every  day  'novice'  and  'amateur.'  I  am  dwelling  on 
all  these  things,  Dolly,  because  I  never  would  own  to 
you  before  that  the  life  was  anything  but  delightful,  and 
because,  too,  I  almost  wanted  to  put  off  the  dreadful 
part  of  my  story  as  long  as  possible." 

She  paused.  A  faint  flush  had  come  into  her  cheeks, 
but  her  lips  were  still  colorless.  Dorothy  looked  at  her 
with  ever  growing  apprehension. 

"If  only  you  would  try  and  eat  something,"  she  whis- 
pered, coaxingly,  "you  would  feel  stronger  to  tell  me 
everything.     My  poor  child,  you  look  half  starved !" 

"I  haven't  cared  to  eat  for  several  days  now,"  Phyllis 
returned,  shaking  her  head  wearily.  "I  have  only  just 
taken  enough  to  keep  me  alive  to  come  to  you.  I  want 
you  to  put  yourself  right  in  my  place,  remembering  that 
I  am  not  clever  like  you,  and  that  I  cannot  live  without 
some  one  to  love  me." 

"Don't  I  love  you,  Phyllis?" 

"Indeed,  indeed,  you  do.  But  I  wanted  another  kind 
of  love,  too.  It  was  not  that  I  wanted  to  be  married  yet, 
but  I  wanted  a  little  kindness,  a  little  admiration,  a  little 


A  Story  of  London.  45 

petting — I  was  so  lonely,  so  wretchedly  lonely,  in  those 
ugly,  black,  northerly  towns.  What  could  I  do  with 
myself  all  day  in  lodgings  at  ten  shillings  a  week?  The 
men  of  the  company,  all  but  Mr.  Trevelyan,  seemed  to 
pass  their  time  in  going  about  in  bands  from  one  hotel 
bar  to  another.  The  married  women  made  friends  with 
their  landladies,  or  called  upon  each  other  to  talk  about 
their  lodgings,  and  their  parts,  and  scandal — about  me,  I 
suppose,  as  I  was  the  only  young  woman  in  the  com- 
pany. But  none  of  them  came  to  see  me,  and  you  know, 
Dorothy,  I  cannot  bear  to  go  about  by  myself.  In  some 
of  the  rougher  towns  the  people  are  almost  ready  to 
stone  anybody  who  is  in  the  least  well  dressed.  There  is 
nothing  to  see,  nowhere  to  go,  no  one  to  speak  to,  noth- 
ing to  do  but  sit  on  horsehair  chairs  in  mean  lodgings, 
staring  at  the  cheap  vases  and  wax  flowers  on  the  man- 
telpiece. Oh,  Dolly,  it  isn't  as  if  I  had  had  art  to  com- 
fort me.  What  art  and  what  hope  of  getting  on  is  there 
in  going  down  every  night  before  seven  to  a  dirty, 
draughty  theatre  and  painting  one's  face  and  changing 
one's  dress  just  to  go  on  and  say,  'Yes,  papa,'  and  'Here 
is  Frank,'  and  'Good  gracious!'  and  'Quite  well,  thank 
you,'  at  intervals,  three  hours  every  night  for  days  and 
weeks  and  months  together?  And  then  the  coming 
home — that  is  the  worst  part  of  it!  The  rush  home, 
frightened  by  the  coarse  remarks  of  shop  boys  hanging 
about  the  stage  door.  Home !  What  a  word  to  use ! 
A  cloth  laid,  and  a  familiar,  prying  landlady,  or  else  the 
cloth  without  the  landlady.  I  know  these  details  sound 
trivial  and  silly,  but  they  mean  so  much  in  the  end. 
Think  how  much  in  a  life  of  that  kind  tenderness  and 
sympathy  and  laughter  and  fun  and  brightness,  and  the 
companionship  of  some  one  who  understands  you,  some 
one  of  education  and  in  your  own  rank  of  life,  with  some- 
thing else  to  talk  about  besides  lodging  and  parts  would 


46  A  Story  of  London. 

mean !  To  be  taken  to  and  from  the  theatre,  to  know 
when  one  came  out,  tired  and  hot,  into  the  night  air, 
some  one  would  be  waiting  to  wrap  a  shawl  round  one's 
shoulders,  draw  one's  arm  through  his  and  take  one 
home !  Or,  on  clear  moonlight  nights,  away  from  he 
ugly  theatre  and  the  ugly  town,  with  its  chimneys  and 
its  factories,  to  the  open  country,  sometimes,  best  of  all, 
to  the  sea !  The  change  from  the  flare  of  the  gas  lights, 
the  dust,  the  paint,  the  sneers  and  stories  of  the  women, 
to  the  cool,  pure  moonlight  shining  on  the  waves  as  they 
break  in  upon  the  shore. 

"Can't  you  fancy  what  all  this  would  mean?  Some 
one  talking  poetry,  literature,  prettily  turning  compli- 
ments, or  bright  nonsense,  some  one  to  buy  you  fresh 
flowers  daily,  and  books  and  bonbons,  some  one  with 
whom  to  take  long  country  rambles,  talking  about  alll 
the  things  one  likes  best,  and,  most  of  all,  dear,  of  you. 
Yes,  you  must  not  shake  your  head  like  that.  I  know  it 
has  all  been  a  miserable,  ghastly  failure,  but  he  has  never 
tired  of  hearing  and  asking  questions  about  you.  He 
made  me  angry  by  stealing  a  portrait  of  you  from  my  al- 
bum and  refusing  to  give  it  back,  and  he  would  sit  con- 
stantly staring  at  your  picture  in  my  rooms  without 
speaking,  until  I  kept  it  hidden  away  from  jealousy. 

"You  see,  I  fell  in  love  with  him ;  but,  Dolly,  wasn't  it 
natural?  He  was  always  so  gentle  and  so  kind.  He 
could  not  make  companions  of  the  men  in  the  company, 
he  said.  He  had  a  contempt  for  actors,  which  I  was 
ready  to  share.  He  did  not  act  very  well  himself,  in- 
deed, he  did  not  seem  to  try  to ;  but  he  was  so  handsome 
that  at  every  town  the  stupid  girls,  factory  hands  and 
all  sorts  of  women,  used  to  send  him  the  most  wonderful 
ill-spelt  love-letters  and  watch  for  him  to  come  out  of 
the  stage  door.  It  was  a  petty  triumph,  perhaps,  to  find 
that  he  had  eyes  for  no  one  but  me.     He  seemed  not  to 


A  Story  of  London.  47 

remember  that  there  was  another  woman  living  but  my- 
self, yet  all  the  women  in  the  company  liked  and  ad- 
mired him,  while  the  men  detested  him.  They  used  to 
call  him  Cupid,  which  made  me  very  angry,  though  I 
hardly  knew  why.  He  had  great  blue  eyes,  with  curled- 
up  dark  lashes,  beautiful  features,  a  black  mustache,  and 
short,  curly  black  hair.  His  figure  was  tall  and  graceful, 
and  he  moved  and  dressed  so  well  that  he  made  the 
other  men  look  clumsy. 

"Of  course,  all  the  company  began  to  chatter  when 
Mr.  Trevelyan  and  I  were  constantly  together.  Sergius 
told  me  not  to  mind;  he  said  their  coarse  minds  could 
not  understand  a  friendship  of  souls  such  as  ours,  and  I 
agreed  with  him.  Long  before  he  ever  told  me  he  loved 
me,  he  would  sit  by  my  side  reading  aloud  to  me,  in  a 
beautiful  voice  which  thrilled  with  feeling  passages  from 
Tennyson  and  Mrs.  Browning,  and  Matthew  Arnold  and 
Shelley.  He  considered  Robert  Browning  coarse,  and 
Swinburne  animal,  he  said.  I  never  met  any  man  who 
seemed  to  have  such  tender,  delicate  susceptibilities. 

"One  of  the  married  women  had  to  leave  to  go  home 
to  nurse  her  child,  and  in  her  place  a  girl  was  engaged 
who  speedily  gave  the  whole  company  something  to  talk 
about.  She  was  very  pretty,  I  suppose;  at  least,  all  the 
men  thought  her  so,  and  she  flirted  with  them  all  under 
the  eyes  of  their  wives,  and  laughed  at  them,  and  used 
bad  language  when  she  got  excited.  But  she  used  to 
have  champagne  in  the  dressing-room  and  offer  it  to 
the  others,  and  all  the  women,  although  they  pretended 
to  be  shocked,  liked  her  very  much  better  than  they 
did  me. 

"Miss  Montgomery,  for  that  is  what  she  called  her- 
self, fell  in  love,  or  pretended  to  fall  in  love,  with  Mr. 
Trevelyan.  He  did  not  seem  to  take  any  notice  of  her, 
but  I  got  dreadfully  unhappy  and  jealous,  so  jealous  and 


48  A  Story  of  London. 

so  afraid  of  losing  him  that  one  miserable  rainy  day  last 
winter,  as  I  sat  shivering  over  a  smoking  fire  in  a  red 
brick  cottage  in  Oldham,  Sergius  found  me  in  just  the 
mood  he  had  been  hoping  and  waiting  for. 

"I  did  not  hear  him  come  in.  He  opened  the  front 
door  himself  and  slipped  in  so  quietly  into  my  sitting 
room  that  I  did  not  know  he  was  there.  I  had  my 
head  lowered  in  my  hands,  and  I  was  crying.  Suddenly 
I  felt  his  kisses  upon  the  back  of  my  neck,  and  the  next 
moment  he  was  kneeling  beside  me,  clasping  me  in  his 
arms  and  calling  me  his  queen,  his  pure,  white  dove. 
I  did  not  repulse  him — how  could  I,  Dolly,  when  I  was 
so  lonely  and  miserable,  and  when  I  loved  him?  You 
can't  understand  now ;  but  some  day  you  will  know  how 
a  woman  feels  when  she  really  loves  a  man  and  has  his 
arms  around  her  for  the  first  time.  It  means  perfect 
happiness  and  perfect  rest — there  is  nothing  like  it  in  the 
whole  world." 

She  ceased  speaking.  Tears  rolled  fast  down  her 
pretty,  worn  face.  Dorothy's  mouth  was  firmly  set,  and 
in  her  eyes  there  shone  already  a  light  of  fierce  indigna- 
tion. 

"Go  on,  my  dear,"  she  said  presently.  It  made  her  im- 
patient that  Phyllis'  memory  should  even  now  linger  too 
regretfully  over  her  lost  happiness,  and  she  wanted  fuller 
justification  for  the  feelings  of  burning  resentment  which 
already  smouldered  in  her  heart  against  Sergius  Tre- 
velyan. 

Phyllis,  awakening  from  her  brief  dream,  wiped  her 
eyes,  sighed,  and  obeyed. 

"I  never  tried  to  disguise  from  Sergius  that  I  loved 
him.  He  spent  all  the  time  with  me  until  we  went  down 
to  the  theatre,  and  it  was  on  our  way  there  that,  for  the 
first  time,  he  said  something  which  hurt  and  startled 
me. 


A  Story  of  London.  49 

"It  was  about  you.  Of  course,  I  wanted  to  write  and 
tell  you  that  Sergius  and  I  were  engaged,  for,  although  he 
had  not  said  in  so  many  words,  Will  you  marry  me?  he 
had  declared  he  could  no  longer  live  without  me,  and  I 
thought  that  was  the  same  thing. 

"As  we  reached  the  stage  door,  I  turned  to  him. 

"  'I  must  write  to  Dorothy  to-night,'  I  said,  'and  tell 
her.  I  have  said  very  little  about  you  in  my  letters  as 
yet,  but  I  will  make  up  for  that  to-night.' 

"I  could  see  his  face  change. 

"  'Don't  write  until  we  have  another  talk,'  he  said,  and 
that  night  when  he  saw  me  home  he  begged  to  be  al- 
lowed to  come  in,  and,  as  he  said,  explain  things,  and 
grew  vexed  and  reproachful  because  I  said  it  was  too  late 
for  visitors,  and  insisted  on  parting  from  him  at  the  door. 

"I  was  happy  that  night,  thinking  of  Sergius  and  his 
love,  but  I  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  keeping  anything 
from  you.  At  one  moment  I  thrilled  all  over  with  a 
warm  delight  as  I  recalled  his  tender  caresses  and  pas- 
sionate words,  and  the  next  my  heart  grew  chilled  with 
uneasiness  as  I  remembered  his  admonition  against  writ- 
ing to  you  until  he  had  explained.  Explained!  What 
was  there,  what  could  there  be  to  explain?  Even  if  he 
was  badly  off  and  not  in  a  position  to  marry  yet,  I  would 
gladly  wait  for  him.  There  seemed  to  be  a  discrepancy 
between  the  impetuosity  of  his  love  avowal  and  his  wish 
to  'explain  things'  before  I  wrote  to  you. 

"Next  day  he  came  early,  before,  indeed,  I  had  had  my 
breakfast.  If  anything,  he  was  more  impassioned  than 
ever.  He  covered  my  hands  and  face  with  kisses  and 
swore  that  I  was  his  ideal — the  woman  he  had  all  his  life 
waited  for — and  should  be  his  guardian  angel.  I  was  so 
glad  to  find  he  had  forgiven  my  refusal  to  admit  him 
on  the  preceding  evening  that  at  first  I  almost  forgot 


50  A  Story  of  London. 

what  I  had  to  ask.  At  last,  in  the  middle  of  his  vows 
and  protestations,  I  said : 

"  'Why  may  I  not  tell  my  sister  that  you  love  me  and 
that  we  are  engaged  ?' 

"His  arm  was  round  my  waist,  but  as  I  spoke  he  with- 
drew it  and  sighed  deeply.  Then  he  got  up  and  walked 
away  from  me. 

"  'I  thought  you  so  different  from  other  women,'  he 
murmured,  half  to  himself.  'The  tie  that  binds  us  is 
that  of  soul  to  soul.  We  want  no  conventional  engage- 
ment, no  vulgar  remarks  and  congratulations.  Sim- 
ply to  know  that  you  are  mine  and  that  I  am  yours — 
that  would  be  enough  for  me.' 

"Of  course,  he  made  me  feel  small  and  conventional 
and  ashamed  of  myself;  but  something  within  me  told 
me  I  was  right,  especially  as  he  immediately  began  to 
walk  about  the  room  and  inveigh,  not  only  against  en- 
gagements, but  against  the  marriage  tie,  declaring  it  to 
be  an  effete  and  vulgar  institution,  suitable  only  for  bour- 
geois minds,  to  whom  true  love  and  the  communion  of 
spirit  with  spirit  was  unknown. 

"I  felt  the  ground  slipping  away  from  me;  but  I 
thought  of  you,  Dorothy,  and  what  you  would  have  said, 
and  that  gave  me  courage. 

"  T  am  sorry,  Mr.  Trevelyan,'  I  said ;  'very,  very 
sorry.  But  if  I  had  known  that  those  were  your  opin- 
ions, I  should  never  have  let  my  heart  go  out  to  you 
as  it  did  yesterday.' 

"He  stopped  in  his  walk  and  stared  at  me,  half  sorrow- 
fully, half  scornfully. 

"  'Have  I  been  so  mistaken  in  you  then  ?'  he  asked. 
'And  in  your  case,  also,  is  marriage  and  not  love  the 
absorbing  idea  of  your  mind  ?' 

"I  grew  hot  and  miserable  under  the  implied  sneer, 
but  I  told  him  that  love  and  friendship  were  in  my  opin- 


A  Story  of  London.  51 

ion  different,  and  that  I  would  not  willingly  give  the  for- 
mer to  a  man  who  did  not  love  me  well  enough  to  make 
me  his  wife.  Then  I  said  that  we  had  both  been  mis- 
taken, and  that  for  my  part,  I  should  behave  to  him  in 
future  as  if  yesterday's  interview  had  never  taken  place. 
Only  I  would  rather  see  as  little  of  him  as  possible  for 
the  rest  of  the  tour. 

"I  was  leaving  the  room  as  I  finished  speaking,  very 
miserable  and  humiliated,  and  dreadfully  excited,  al- 
though my  voice  sounded  quiet  enough,  when  he  flung 
himself  between  me  and  the  door,  and,  going  down  on 
his  knees  at  my  feet,  swore  that  he  had  only  talked  in  that 
way  to  try  me  and  see  what  my  affection  was  made  of. 
He  was  a  strict  Roman  Catholic,  he  declared,  and  it 
was  against  his  most  cherished  convictions  to  marry  a 
heretic;  and,  besides  that,  his  mother  and  father,  who 
were  people  in  a  magnificent  position,  had  chosen  a 
beautiful  heiress  for  him  to  marry,  and  would  disinherit 
him  if  he  disobeyed  them. 

"  'The  more  reason,'  I  cried,  trying  to  wrench  my 
hands  from  his  clasp,  'for  parting  at  once.  I  certainly 
will  not  stand  in  the  way  of  your  fortune  and  your 
career.' 

"  'I  love  you  better  than  fortune,  career,  or  life  itself!' 
he  exclaimed,  covering  my  hands  and  the  folds  of  my 
dress  with  kisses.  'I  will  sacrifice  everything  for  you, 
since  you  insist  upon  it.  But  if  I  do  this,  you  must 
promise  me  faithfully  to  keep  our  engagement  a  solemn 
secret  until  such  time  as  I  can  prepare  my  parents'  minds 
for  the  news.  No  one  must  know ;  it  must  be  a  precious 
secret  between  us ;  I  will  not  have  it  shared  by  your 
sister.' 

"In  the  end  he  wrung  from  me  a  reluctant  consent  to 
this  arrangement.  I  know  you  will  say  it  was  very 
wrong  and  silly  of  me,  but  you  must  remember  that  I 


52  A  Story  of  London. 

had  no  one  to  advise  me,  that  I  loved  him  very  dearly, 
and  that  he  is  quite  extraordinarily  eloquent  and  per- 
suasive, and  has  a  voice  which  can  make  one  do  any- 
thing. 

"From  that  moment  he  spent  all  his  time  with  me. 
When  I  came  down  to  breakfast  in  the  morning  I  used 
to  find  him  there,  and  he  never  left  me  until  he  had  seen 
me  home  from  the  theatre  every  night.  He  seemed  re- 
luctant to  let  me  go  out  of  his  sight,  and  constantly  re- 
proached me  for  not  allowing  him  to  come  in  to  supper 
with  me,  as  he  declared  he  spent  the  greater  part  of 
each  night  walking  up  and  down  outside  my  lodgings. 
As  we  only  stayed  a  week  in  each  town,  he  complained 
bitterly  that  our  marriage  would  be  impossible  until 
the  tour  broke  up  for  a  fortnight's  vacation  at  Christmas 
before  going  on  for  another  twenty  weeks  in  the  new 
year.  At  last,  quite  unexpectedly,  through  some  dis- 
appointment about  a  date  for  a  theatre,  Sergius  learned 
from  the  manager  that  we  were  going  to  play  for  two 
weeks  in  Sheffield,  instead  of  a  week,  as  was  at  first  in- 
tended, so  that  he  would  have  time  to  give  the  fortnight's 
notice  of  residence  necessary  for  the  marriage  license. 

"But  here  came  another  difficulty  which  well  nigh  up- 
set his  plans.  The  marriage,  so  Sergius  told  me,  must 
be  kept  a  profound  secret,  not  only  from  my  relations 
and  his  own,  but  also  from  all  the  members  of  the  'Set- 
tled for  Life'  company. 

"At  first  I  thought  he  must  be  jesting,  the  request 
seemed  so  preposterous ;  but  when  I  realized  that  he 
was  thoroughly  in  earnest,  I  became  very  angry,  and  re- 
fused to  take  him  on  such  terms.  We  had  a  stormy 
scene ;  he  accused  me  of  breaking  his  heart  and  ruining 
his  career  with  my  puritanical  folly  and  selfishness.  I 
had  sent  him  mad  by  my  coquetry,  and  he  swore  that 
whatever  crime  he  might  commit  would  lie  at  my  door. 


A  Story  of  London.  53 

"That  evening  he  did  not  appear  at  the  theatre,  but  a 
messenger  came  in  haste  to  inform  the  manager  that  Mr. 
Trevelyan  was  lying  at  his  lodgings  dangerously  wound- 
ed by  a  pistol  shot  in  the  head.  Every  one  looked  at 
me,  the  men  with  interest,  the  women  with  open  hostili- 
ty. I  felt  sick  with  anxiety  and  self-reproach,  yet  how 
could  I  have  acted  differently? 

"That  night  I  called  at  his  lodgings;- he  was  delirious, 
the  landlady  assured  me,  and  calling  constantly  on  my 
name.  She  begged  me  to  see  him.  In  her  presence  I 
did  so.  Sergius  was  deadly  pale,  and  his  head  was  cov- 
ered with  a  blood-stained  bandage.  It  was  only  a  flesh 
wound,  as  I  afterward  ascertained,  but  at  the  time  I 
thought  he  was  dying,  and  wept  bitterly,  as  did  the  land- 
lady. He  had  meant  to  kill  himself,  he  told  me,  being 
unable  to  endure  the  thought  of  life  without  me,  and  he 
should  certainly  die  that  night  unless  I  solemnly  prom- 
ised I  would  marry  him  when  we  arrived  at  Sheffield  in 
ten  days'  time. 

"Even  then,  when  I  believed  his  life  hung  in  the  bal- 
ance, I  entreated  him  to  let  me  confide  in  you.  But  he 
would  not  hear  to  it,  and  became  so  terribly  excited  that 
the  landlady  upbraided  me  for  my  cruelty  in  being  hard 
on  a  dying  man.  The  woman  knew  quite  well  what  I  did 
not  know,  that  he  was  not  dying  at  all,  or  even  seriously 
injured;  but  Sergius  easily  acquired  the  sympathy  and 
affection  of  all  women  who  personally  attended  upon 
him. 

"Before  I  left  the  house  I  had  consented  to  become 
his  wife  on  his  own  terms,  and  on  the  last  day  of  our 
stay  in  Sheffield  we  were  married  very  quietly  early  in 
the  morning  at  a  church  in  the  town,  the  only  witnesses 
being  the  clerk  and  a  pew-opener. 

"At  first  Sergius  appeared  absolutely  happy  and  con- 
tented.   He  loaded  me  with  caresses,  showed  an  inex- 


54  A  Story  of  London. 

plicable  and  morbid  jealousy  if  I  so  much  as  mentioned 
another  man's  name,  and  hardly  left  my  side.  We  spent 
the  vacation  together  at  Brighton,  as  I  told  you,  going 
about  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Trevelyan,  although  he  told  me 
it  was  not  his  real  name.  By  descent  he  came,  he  de- 
clared, from  the  ancient  Italian  nobility  on  his  mother's 
side,  and  the  kings  of  Ireland  on  his  father's  side.  Yet 
he  preserved  a  singular  and,  as  it  seemed,  unnecessary 
mystery  on  the  subject  of  his  name  and  his  former  life, 
and  very  soon  began  to  make  me  jealous  and  unhappy 
by  alluding  darkly  to  many  women  who  had  loved  him, 
and  whose  photographs  and  letters  he  had  preserved. 

"Brighton  was  delightful,  but  our  return  to  the  com- 
pany, for  many  reasons  unpleasant  and  painful.  Nat- 
urally, I  was  obliged  to  mention  my  marriage  to  the 
actresses,  as  Sergius  and  I  took  lodgings  in  the  same 
house.  I  knew  they  all  disliked  me,  but  I  was  hardly 
prepared  for  the  dead  silence  in  which  they  received  the 
announcement,  or  for  the  sneering  whispers,  intentional- 
ly audible  to  me,  which  immediately  followed.  It  is 
true  that  I  did  not  like  them,  but  still  they  were  women, 
and  women  are  usually  interested  in  a  marriage.  My 
heart  ached,  and  a  lump  came  into  my  throat  at  their 
behavior,  which  they  followed  up  by  a  studied,  scornful 
coldness  and  constant  allusions  to  'the  quiet  ones  being 
always  the  worse/  which  were  at  the  time  incompre- 
hensible to  me. 

"Gradually,  as  I  could  not  fail  to  see,  Sergius'  first  ar- 
dor cooled.  Letters  in  a  woman's  handwriting,  which 
he  read  and  reread  in  my  presence,  came  for  him  daily. 
He  began  to  leave  me  alone  for  hours,  just  when  I  was 
beginning  to  feel  most  keenly  the  necessity  for  sympa- 
thy and  affectionate  companionship.  When  my  health 
gave  way  and  I  was  no  longer  able  to  take  long  ram- 
bles with  him,  he  seemed  to  think  himself  badly  treated. 


A  Story  of  London.  55 

Spasmodically  he  was  tender  and  effusive,  but  at  last  he 
assumed  a  pitying  instead  of  a  loving  tone,  and  openly 
lamented  the  possibility  of  increased  expenses.  This 
conduct  especially  was  very,  very  hard  to  bear.  He  was 
deeply  in  debt,  and  our  united  salary  of  four  pounds  ten 
a  week  scarcely  met  our  expenses,  so  that  I  dared  not 
leave  off  acting. 

"Every  day  my  heartache  grew.  I  longed  passion- 
ately for  you,  for  the  touch  of  your  hand,  the  sound  of 
your  voice;  but  Sergius  would  not  hear  of  my  sending 
for  you,  and  in  what  seemed  like  an  excess  of  his  former 
fervor,  he  asked  me  if  his  love  were  not  enough  for  me, 
and  declared  himself  bitterly  jealous  of  my  affection  for 
you. 

"At  last,  one  night  in  the  dressing  room,  just  two 
months  ago,  one  of  the  married  women,  who  meant,  I 
think,  to  be  kind,  asked  me  if  I  did  not  consider  it  time 
to  stop  the  'sort  of  thing  that  was  going  on  between  my 
husband  and  Lelia  Montgomery.'  At  first  I  could  not 
understand  her,  but  as  she  went  on  talking  I  recalled 
little  incidents,  things  that  had  puzzled  me,  and  which 
might  have  opened  my  eyes  earlier  to  the  true  state  of 
the  case.  Still,  I  could  not,  I  would  not,  believe  my 
husband  false  to  me. 

"  'Here  is  Lelia,'  whispered  my  informant ;  'she  has 
been  out  driving  with  Mr.  Trevelyan,  and  he  has  brought 
her  to  the  theatre.' 

"Dorothy,  try  to  put  yourself  in  my  place  and  live 
through  the  scene  that  followed. 

"The  girl  came  in,  showily  dressed,  laughing,  trium- 
phant. I  dare  say  I  was  a  little  hysterical,  for  I  turned 
to  her  before  them  all  and  asked  her  whether  it  was 
true  that  she  had  been  out  with  my  husband. 

"She  looked  at  me  from  head  to  foot,  and  burst  into  a 
fit  of  coarse  laughter.  • 


56  A  Story  of  London. 

"  'Out  with  your  husband !'  she  repeated.  'Not  me ! 
I've  been  out  with  your  young  man;  though,  for  that 
matter,  he's  as  much  mine  as  yours.' 

"I  thought  she  had  been  drinking  and  drew  back. 

"  'You  cannot  be  in  your  right  senses,'  I  said,  'to  ad- 
dress such  language  to  Mr.  Trevelyan's  wife.' 

"She  laughed  again,  louder  than  before. 

"  'His  wife !'  she  shouted.  'Girls,  that's  good,  isn't 
it?  Sergius  Trevelyan's  wife  is  in  America,  as  you  and 
I  and  all  the  company  know  quite  well ;  that  farce  of  be- 
ing married  to  him  is  played  out  now.  Anybody  can 
see  he  is  sick  of  it  and  you,  too.' 

"  'I  shrank  with  horror  from  the  woman,  and  glanced 
round  at  the  other  women's  faces.  They  were  inter- 
ested and  inquisitive,  but  not  one  showed  the  least  sym- 
pathy with  me  or  desire  to  defend  me  from  such  a  foul 
attack  on  my  name. 

"  'You  all  of  you  know,'  I  said,  as  steadily  as  I  could, 
trying  to  stifle  a  horrid  fear  that  was  gathering  at  my 
heart,  'that  I  was  married  to  Mr.  Trevelyan,  at  Sheffield, 
before  last  Christmas.' 

"There  was  a  pause,  filled  up  with  Miss  Montgom- 
ery's mocking  laughter.  Then  the  woman  who  had  first 
told  me  about  her  spoke  in  tones  that  were  not  unkindly. 

"  'We  all  know,'  she  said,  'that  Mr.  Trevelyan  went 
through  some  sort  of  ceremony  with  you,  because  he 
told  us  so,  and  asked  us  to  treat  you  as  his  wife,  as  you 
were  so  madly  in  love  with  him  you  couldn't  live  without 
him,  and  had  some  idea  that  even  an  illegal  marriage 
was  better  than  nothing  at  all.' 

"  'He — my  husband — told  you  that !'  I  gasped. 

"  'Every  one  of  ous.  He  said  he  was  in  for  it,  even  if  it 
was  a  bigamy  case,  because,  although  you  knew  quite 
well  he  was  married,  it  was  a  fad  of  yours.' 


A  Story  of  London.  57 

"I  was  stunned  by  her  words,  but  I  could  see  by  the 
faces  of  the  others  that  she  had  told  the  truth.  I  tried  to 
speak,  but  something  seemed  to  snap  in  my  heart,  my 
limbs  gave  way  under  me,  and  I  fell  face  downward  on 
the  floor." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A    RUINED    IvlEE. 

Phyllis  ceased.  Her  lips  were  parched  and  dry,  but  a 
feverish  excitement  glittered  in  her  eyes.  Dorothy 
could  not  trust  herself  to  speak,  but  gently  disengaging 
herself  from  her  sister,  who  had  held  one  of  her  hands 
tightly  while  recounting  her  unhappy  story,  she  fetched 
from  a  cupboard  in  the  adjoining  room  a  little  brandy 
and  water,  which  she  gently  forced  Phyllis  to  drink  be- 
fore continuing. 

The  effort  of  so  much  talking  had  tired  the  girl's  weak 
frame,  but  her  longing  to  confide  every  detail  to  her  sis- 
ter sustained  her,  and  she  was  impatient  to  proceed. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  got  back  to  my  lodgings  that 
night,"  she  went  on;  "I  afterward  heard  that  the  girl 
Montgomery  got  a  cab  and  sent  me  home  in  it,  while 
the  actress  who  appeared  in  the  first -piece,  and  was  my 
understudy,  undertook  to  play  my  part.  When  I  re- 
covered consciousness  I  was  lying  on  the  sofa  in  the 
sitting-room.  Sergius  was  standing  by  the  table  on 
which  the  cloth  was  laid  for  supper,  helping  himself  to 
whisky. 

"I  tried  to  sit  up  and  utter  his  name.  I  did  not  at 
first  remember  what  had  happened,  but  his  first  words 
brought  it  all  back  to  me. 

"  'What  in  the  world  induced  you  to  make  a  scene  at 
the  theatre  to-night,  and  give  yourself  away  before  Miss 
Montgomery  and  the  other  women?'  he  asked,  irritably. 

"I  sprang  up  from  the  sofa. 

"  'Sergius,'  I  cried,  'it  is  not  true,  is  it  ?    What  they 


A  Ruined  Life.  59 

told  me,  I  mean.  It  is  impossible.  You  would  not  be 
human  if  you  were  so  wicked.  I  am  your  wife,  am  I 
not?  And  you  love  me?  That  story  that  you  were 
married. before  is  a  lie,  is  it  not?' 

"I  had  seized  him  by  the  arm;  I  was  half  mad  with 
anxiety.  To  my  horror  he  did  not  answer  me  directly, 
but  began  to  stroke  my  hair  and  tell  me  to  be  a  good 
girl  and  not  to  make  a  fuss  about  nothing. 

"  'You  know,  my  dear,'  he  said,  'I  never  desired  this 
marriage;  you  forced  it  upon  me.  You  were  breaking 
your  heart  about  me,  and  I  was  so  touched  by  your  in- 
fatuation that  I  agreed  to  what  was  a  very  risky  busi- 
ness for  me.' 

"I  could  do  nothing  but  stare  at  him.  He  actually 
seemed  to  believe  what  he  was  saying,  and  spoke  in  an 
injured  tone. 

"  'It  is  all  your  own  fault,  giy  child,'  he  went  on,  'and 
due  to  the  silly,  puritanical  way  in  which  you  have  been 
brought  up.  Love  is  not  a  thing  to  be  cabined  and  con- 
fined by  a  wedding-ring.  If  it  had  not  been  for  that  ab- 
surd and  meaningless  ceremony  which  you  insisted  upon 
at  Sheffield,  we  shouldn't  have  been  half  so  tired  of  each 
other  as  we  are  now.' 

"I  hardly  noticed  the  words  in  which  for  the  first  time 
he  told  me  that  he  was  tired  of  me  in  my  horror  at  his 
allusions  to  our  marriage  as  a  'meaningless  ceremony.' 
I  had  sunk  on  the  sofa  again.  My  mind  was  torn  be- 
tween a  growing  despair  and  a  tendency  to  hysterical 
laughter  at  the  sight  of  Sergius,  who  had  certainly  been 
drinking  more  than  usual,  seated  at  the  table,  preaching 
philosophy  and  resignation  over  his  whisky  and  water. 

"  'If  I  am  not  your  wife,'  I  said  at  last,  'what  am  I? 
What  shall  I  be  ?  What  will  the  world  think  of  me  in  a 
little  while?' 

"Sergius  rolled  a  cigarette  while  he  answered : 


60  A  Ruined  Life. 

"  'Think  ?  Oh,  they'll  think  you  are  a  charming  young 
lady  who  has  had  an  experience,'  he  answered,  'and  I 
daresay,  in  the  Bohemian  circles  in  which  you  are  likely 
to  move,  it  won't  stand  in  the  way  of  your  getting  mar- 
ried regularly  some  day,  which  appears  to  be  the  height  of 
your  ambition.  But  I  really  wish,  Phyllis,  you  wouldn't 
use  that  conventional  expression,  "what  will  the  world 
say  or  think  of  you  ?"  My  dear  child,  people  who  haven't 
any  money  or  position  haven't  any  "world."  These  ex- 
cellent stage  persons,  mostly  recruited  from  the  back- 
shop,  hardly  constitute  what  is  called  society.  All  this 
scene  to-night  was  very  silly.  We  have  had  our  little  day 
of  love  and  sunshine,  and  when  we  part  it  must  be  as 
friends.' 

"  'Dear,'  I  cried  at  last,  'you  or  I  must  be  mad !  You 
cannot  in  your  sober  senses  be  sitting  there  before  me, 
telling  me  that  you  have  utterly  ruined  me  and  wrecked 
my  life  for  the  sake  of  a  vicious,  transient  fancy.  Try  to 
realize  for  one  moment  what  your  words  would  mean  if 
they  were  true.  I  have  loved  you,  trusted  you.  I  have 
been  your  devoted  wife,  believing  in  your  love  for  me; 
you  persuaded  me  to  marry  you,  forced  me  to  keep  our 
marriage  a  secret  from  my  dear  sister,  because  you  made 
me  believe  that  you  were  dying  for  love  of  me.  You 
have  often  told  me  how  it  pains  you  to  see  any  one  suffer- 
ing and  to  relieve  them.  Think  what  I  am  suffering  now. 
How  can  I  return  to  my  sister  so — the  purest,  sweetest 
woman  in  this  world.  The  very  thought  of  such  a  thing 
makes  me  sick  with  shame.  When  I  have  spoken  to  you 
of  our  hard,  struggling  lives  since  our  father's  death, 
Dorothy's  and  mine,  you  have  seemed  deeply  touched, 
and  have  told  me  you  would  have  given  all  you  had  to 
have  worked  for  us,  helped  us,  and  protected  us.  You 
have  been  moved  to  tears  by  the  account  of  our  poverty 
and  trials.     How  can  you,  then,  even  in  jest,  suggest  the 


A  Ruined  Life.  61 

possibility  of  breaking  my  heart,  ruining  my  life,  betray- 
ing and  deserting  me,  in  so  vile  and  cold-blooded  a  man- 
ner?' 

"As  I  stood  by  the  table  looking  across  at  him  I  per- 
ceived that  he  had  tears  in  his  eyes  as  he  stared  into  his 
empty  glass. 

"  'I  was  thinking,'  he  said,  'of  Swinburne's  wonderful 
lines :  "For  love  has  no  abiding,  and  dies  before  the 
kiss."  How  true  they  are,  and  how  sad  that  love,  the 
sweetest  thing  on  earth,  should  be  so  short-lived !' 

"He  had  not  even  heard  me. 

"Dorothy,  as  I  looked  at  him  with  new  feelings  in  my 
mind,  I  seemed  to  understand  him  for  the  first  time. 
Suffering  made  me  clever.  I  began  to  realize  the  awful 
mistake  I  had  made  in  supposing  that  this  vicious,  shal- 
low sentimentalist  was  a  man  of  heart  and  feeling.  There 
was  nothing  to  be  hoped  for  from  him,  and  yet  I  had  put 
myself  utterly  in  his  power.  Just  because  he  was  a  man 
and  I  was  a  woman  he  could  injure  me  beyond  all  repara- 
tion, and  I  could  do  nothing. 

"Presently,  while  I  was  still  watching  him,  Sergius's 
head  dropped  upon  the  table,  and  he  fell  fast  asleep. 

"I  must  have  lost  my  senses,  I  think,  for  I  can  remem- 
ber hardly  anything  until  I  found  myself  at  the  railway 
station  without  my  hat,  crying  out  wildly  that  I  wanted  to 
get  back  to  London  to  my  sister  that  very  night.  My 
address  was  found  on  an  envelope  in  my  pocket,  and 
I  was  taken  back  to  my  lodgings,  where  I  lay  danger- 
ously ill  with  brain  fever  for  six  terrible  weeks. 
Long  before  I  recovered  Sergius  had  left  the  town  with 
the  rest  of  the  company.  My  illness  upset  his  nerves,  so 
my  landlady  informed  me.  He  had  left  five  pounds  in  her 
hands,  with  instructions  to  keep  me  as  long  as  possible. 
When  the  money  was  gone  she  was  to  apply  to  him, 


62  A  Ruined  Life. 

finding  the  address  of  the  'Settled  for  Life'  company  in 
the  theatrical  newspapers. 

"As  soon  as  my  senses  came  back  to  me  I  resolved  to 
find  him  out.  At  least,  I  must  have  some  proof  as  to 
whether  my  marriage  was  or  was  not  illegal,  and  not  for 
my  own  sake  alone.  I  was  at  first  so  strangely  ill  and 
weak  that  I  could  hardly  cross  the  room,  and  constantly 
lost  my  identity;  but  as  soon  as  the  doctor  said  that  I 
was  well  enough  to  travel,  I  followed  the  company  from 
the  midland  town  where  I  was  taken  ill  to  Richmond  in 
Surrey,  a  long,  hot  and  tiresome  journey,  to  defray  which 
I  had  to  sell  my  trinkets,  my  theatrical  wardrobe,  and 
even  the  clothes  I  was  wearing,  taking  some  discarded 
ones  of  my  landlady's  in  exchange. 

"I  reached  Richmond  in  the  evening,  and  saw  the  bills 
of  the  company  about  the  town.  I  had  only  a  few  shil- 
lings left,  and  nothing  that  I  could  sell.  I  know  quite 
well  you  will  say  to  me :  'Why  did  I  not  apply  to  you  ?' 
Remember,  dear,  I  did  try  to  come  to  you  that  night 
when  I  first  learned  that  dreadful  story;  after  that,  for 
many  days,  I  did  not  even  know  who  or  where  I  was.  I 
have  always  been  such  a  shocking  correspondent  that  I 
knew  my  long  silence  would  not  trouble  you ;  and,  be- 
sides, how  could  I  write  you  such  a  hideous  and  shameful 
confession?  And  how  could  I  bear  to  take  your  money 
when  I  know  how  hard  you  work,  and  how  you  have 
kept  the  home  going  and  paid  Cresswell's  wages  and 
everything?  Since  I  married  Sergius  I  had  never  sent 
any  money  home.  The  two  pounds  ten  a  week  I  earned 
hardly  did  more  than  pay  for  his  cigarettes  and  whiskies 
and  sodas,  and  the  getting  up  of  his  linen,  about  which 
he  was  most  particular,  for  he  had  in  everything  extrava- 
gant tastes,  and  wore  trie  most  beautiful  and  expensive 
clothes. 

"At  Richmond  I  dared  not  openly  ask  for  Sergius. 


A  Ruined  Life.  63 

That  dreadful  feeling  of  being  disgraced  and  deserted  be- 
fore the  eyes  of  the  whole  company  ate  into  my  heart 
when  I  thought  of  the  women's  unfriendly  curiosity  and 
coarse  jesting.  I  was  so  shabby,  too,  that  even  for  that 
alone  I  could  not  bear  to  face  any  one  of  them.  So  I 
hung  around  the  river  path  outside  the  theatre,  and 
watched  the  moonlight  upon  the  water  until  I  had  to  tear 
myself  shuddering  away.  For — perhaps  it  was  that  I  had 
not  had  any  food  for  a  long  time,  and  was  growing  light- 
headed— but  that  silver  flickering  pathway  seemed  to 
draw  my  feet  to  it  as  a  magnet. 

"  'At  the  best/  a  voice  seemed  to  whisper  in  my  ear, 
'the  man  you  loved,  the  man  who  has  been  your  husband, 
is  a  scoundrel,  and  is  tired  of  you.  Has  he  not  told  you 
so  ?  And  if  it  be  true  that  he  was  already  married  when 
you  first  met  him,  you  will  never  be  able  to  hold  up  your 
head  again.  What  should  be  the  crowning  glory  of  a 
woman's  life  will  be  to  you  a  misery  and  a  reproach,  a 
nameless  child,  whose  very  existence  must  be  explained 
away  from  the  prying,  disdainful  eyes  of  the  world.  Even 
your  sister,  if  she  knew  all,  would  find  it  in  her  heart  to 
say  that  you  were  better  dead.' 

"Under  that  bright  pathway  was  forgetfulness  and 
peace.  For  the  third  time  my  footsteps  turned  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  river,  when,  just  as  I  stood  on  the  brink,  a 
hand  clutched  my  arm,  and  a  voice  I  knew  spoke  in  my 
ear. 

"As  I  started  and  turned,  Leila  Mongomery,  for  it 
was  she,  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise  as  she  caught 
sight  of  my  face. 

"  'Miss  Knight — Mrs.  Trevelyan !  How  did  you  get 
here?     How  ill  you  look  !     Is  Sergius  with  you?" 

"I  wanted  to  hurry  away,  but  she  insisted  on  following 
me,  and  was  exceedingly  kind  in  her  rough  way.  She 
informed  me  that  Sergius  had  quitted  the  company  unex- 


64  A  Ruined  Life. 

pectedly  a  few  days  after  I  had  been  left  behind,  declar- 
ing that  he  was  going  back  to  'the  only  woman  who  had 
every  really  loved  him.' 

"  'Of  course,  we  all  thought  it  was  you,'  pursued  Miss 
Mongomery,  'though  he  is  a  regular  Don  Juan,  I  must 
say !  It  was  me  had  the  sending  off  of  him  chiefly.  The 
more  I  thought  about  you,  the  more  I  felt  you  were 
speaking  the  truth  when  you  and  I  had  that  flare-up,  and 
that  you  really  didn't  know  he  was  married  to  Millie 
Clements  On  a  singing  tour  in  America  three  years  ago. 
You  were  so  stuck  up  in  the  dressing-room,  and  so  close 
about  your  affairs,  that  nobody  told  you  anything.  But 
when  he  left  you  behind  like  that,  we  all  thought  it  pretty 
mean  of  Trevelyan,  and  as  I'm  never  too  particular  what 
I  say,  I  slanged  him  before  the  whole  company  on  the 
stage  one  night  when  he  was  trying  to  make  up  to  me, 
and  let  him  know  what  I  though  of  him  for  his  treatment 
of  you.  Next  day  he  was  gone,  without  so  much  as  giv- 
ing notice  or  asking  for  his  week's  salary,  and  not  one  of 
us  has  heard  anything  of  him  since.  I  rather  think  I 
made  my  gentleman  ashamed  of  himself.  And  do  you 
really  mean  to  tell  me  he  didn't  go  back  to  you  after  all  ?' 

"Any  flicker  of  hope  I  might  have  had,  and  it  could 
only  have  been  a  very  little,  died  right  out  of  my  heart 
while  she  was  speaking,  and  it  seemed  as  though  the  very 
bitterness  of  death  passed  over  me.  She  wanted  to  help 
me,  but  I  hardly  heard  her.  I  just  remember  thanking 
her,  and  telling  her  that  I  required  no  assistance  and  was 
going  back  to  my  home  and  my  friends.  Then,  before 
she  could  stop  me,  I  left  her  and  ran  away  along  the  tow- 
ing path.  By  the  arches  of  the  bridge  a  rough  group  of 
watermen  were  talking  and  laughing  loudly.  You  know 
what  a  coward  I  have  always  been,  Dolly,  and  how  I 
would  always  rather  run  a  mile  than  face  a  drunken  man. 
I  turned  away  from  the  river  and  crawled  up  the  stone 


A  Ruined  Life.  65 

steps  of  the  bridge.  There  I  found  a  recess  and  a  stone 
seat.  I  sank  upon  it,  with  my  head  against  the  coping, 
and  I  suppose  I  must  have  fainted  or  fallen  asleep,  for  a 
blessed  pause  came  in  which  I  remember  nothing. 

"Before  I  opened  my  eyes,  I  heard  the  wind  rustling  in 
the  poplars  and  the  river  swirling  under  the  arches  below, 
and  I  listened  at  first  without  understanding.  Then  it 
seemed  to  me  that  someone  was  telling  me  a  story  about  a 
poor,  wretched  girl  who  had  been  vain,  and  self-willed, 
and  silly,  and  thought  to  make  her  fortune  on  the  stage, 
and  how  she  came  to  utter  shipwreck  and  lay  dying  of 
starvation  and  a  broken  heart  on  Richmond  Bridge,  un- 
der the  stars  with  the  sound  of  the  water  and  the  rustling 
trees  in  her  ears : 

"  'Girls  should  be  able  to  take  care  of  themselves. 
Don't  tell  me  the  fault  was  all  on  one  side.' 

"I  could  hear  their  shrill  women's  voices  on  the  one 
side,  and  on  the  other  a  minority  of  those  professional 
philanthropists  who  would  want  to  make  a  lost  sheep  of 
her,  and  pet  her  and  pry  into  her  past  experiences,  and  if 
only  they  were  dark  enough,  desire  to  make  a  public 
show  of  her  as  a  converted  sinner.  But  between  the  two 
sets  of  women  I  could  see  no  sympathy  for  such  a  girl 
as  this,  who  had  believed  herself  a  wife,  and  had  placed 
such  faith  in  the  solemn  service  of  the  Church  that  she 
could  not  see  wherein  she  had  sinned  at  all. 

"But  it  was  all  like  some  one  else's  story.  How  could  it 
affect  me,  Phyllis  Knight,  Dorothy's  sister,  except  that  I 
was  very  sorry  for  the  girl  ? 

"A  light  flashed  into  my  eyes  and  brought  me  back  to 
wretchedness  and  reality.  A  policeman  was  holding  a 
lantern  before  my  face  and  telling  me  I  could  not  sleep 
all  night  upon  the  bridge.  When  he  saw  that  I  was  al- 
most too  weak  to  statnd,  he  was  very  kind,  and  took  me 
to  his  wife,  who  made  me  up  a  bed  and  gave  me  food,  and 


66  A  Ruined  Life. 

was  very  good  to  me.  But  they  were  poor  people,  with 
a  large  family,  and  were  naturally  curious  about  me;  so 
while  the  woman  was  out  marketing  in  the  evening  for 
Sunday  I  put  a  few  pence  I  had  left  on  the  table,  and  be- 
gan very  slowly,  by  easy  stages  and  waiting  for  nightfall 
to  make  my  way  home. 

"Just  to  die  in  your  arms,  Dolly,  dear.  I  knew,  I  felt 
sure,  my  strength  would  hold  out  long  enough  for  that. 
But  you  must  put  over  my  grave:  'Phyllis,  wife  of  S. 
Trevelyan;'  Dolly,  be  sure  you  do  that.  I  don't  know 
whether  it  will  make  much  difference  in  the  next  world ; 
but,  oh !  it  makes  so  much  in  this.  And  there  will  be  no 
slur  upon  you,  then,  dear,  and  Cresswell  need  never 
know. 

"There !  It  is  all  told  now.  Kiss  me,  Dorothy,  and  I 
shall  know  you  are  fond  of  me  still.  And  now  let  me 
sleep." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WAYS     AND     MEANS. 

For  a  long  while  after  Phyllis  had  fallen  asleep,  Doro- 
thy lay  awake  in  her  trim  white  bed  in  the  little  room  she 
had  occupied  for  the  past  three  years,  thinking  deeply. 

The  two  things  in  her  sister's  story  which  she  found 
herself  unable  to  understand  were,  first,  that  Phyllis 
should  ever  have  loved  such  a  man  as  Sergius  Trevelyan, 
and  second,  that  she  had  not  tried  to  kill  him  when  she 
discovered  the  full  measure  of  his  villainy. 

Dorothy's  whole  form  grew  hot  with  burning  indigna- 
tion, and  her  fingers  clenched  instinctively  as  she  thought 
of  him.  She  was  already  fully  determined  to  find  him 
out,  in  order  to  have  absolute  proof  of  his  statement  con- 
cerning a  former  marriage,  as  well  as  to  wreak  vengeance 
upon  him  for  his  infamous  conduct  toward  her  beloved 
sister.  How  she  was  to  effect  this  latter  project  she  hard- 
ly knew.  Of  course,  the  law  would  not  help  her,  as 
Phyllis  would  naturally  shrink  from  the  shame  and  pub- 
licity of  prosecuting  him  for  bigamy ;  but  Dorothy  nour- 
ished vague  projects  of  denouncing  him  to  his  relations 
and  friends,  of  branding  him  as  a  coward  and  a  felon,  or 
even,  if  it  were  possible,  striking  him  across  the  face  with 
a  horsewhip,  since,  as  she  told  herself  bitterly,  "we  have 
no  man  to  protect  us  and  avenge  our  injuries." 

At  this  moment,  indeed,  the  very  name  of  man  was 
hateful  to  Miss  Knight.  Before  she  came  to  bed  she 
had  scornfully  destroyed  the  long,  bright  letter  she  had 
been  writing  to  Phyllis  when  the  latter's  cry  disturbed 


68  Ways  and  Means. 

her.  Lying  here  in  the  darkness  Dorothy  blushed  hotly 
as  she  recalled  her  own  foolishness  in  letting  her  thoughts 
dwell  for  awhile  upon  a  man  of  whom  she  knew  nothing 
at  all  but  what  his  own  bare  word  afforded  her,  and  who, 
in  all  probability,  she  told  herself  as  she  dismissed  Mr. 
Aylmer  Read  from  her  mind,  had  in  his  own  time  and 
fashion  broken  the  hearts  of  such  girls  as  were  silly 
enough  to  believe  in  him. 

"But  not  mine!"  she  whispered  to  herself  fiercely 
through  her  clenched  teeth.  "No  man  shall  break  my 
heart,  please  heaven!" 

The  character  of  Artemis  was  one  Dorothy  believed 
congenial  to  her,  and  strove  to  emulate,  although  Nature 
had  cast  her  in  far  too  womanly  and  impulsive  a  mold  to 
enable  her  to  play  the  part.  She  could  hardly  lie  still  in 
her  bed,  so  hotly  did  her  blood  boil  with  fury  against  the 
destroyer  of  her  sister's  peace.  Her  imagination,  always 
vivid,  pictured  the  poetic  appearance  which  had  first 
caught  Phyllis'  attention.  In  the  air  before  her  she 
seemed  to  see  Sergius  Trevelyan's  large  eyes,  long  lashes, 
curly,  black  hair  and  mustache,  and  graceful  figure.  She 
even  fancied,  so  strong  was  her  ecstacy  of  hate,  that  she 
could  hear  that  melodious  voice  which  had  so  charmed 
her  sister's  ears,  reading  aloud  selections  from  his  favor- 
ite poets,  and  becoming  maudlin  and  sentimental  under 
the  combined  misfortunes  of  an  empty  whisky  bottle  and 
the  decline  of  love. 

"Miserable  snake !  I  wish  I  could  kill  him !  My  poor, 
poor  girl !" 

Tears  gushed  from  her  eyes  and  rained  down  her  face 
as  she  recalled  her  sister's  former  dimpled  prettiness  of 
the  true  fascinating  order,  alluring  in  the  audacious  co- 
quetry of  perfect  innocence.  That  a  man  should  crush  so 
sweet  a  flower  for  his  evil  pleasure  produced  in  Dorothy's 
mind  a  temporary  feeling  of  hostility  against  all  men.    To 


Ways  and  Means.  69 

say  that  Phyllis  was  sadly  changed  would  be  to  under- 
state the  case ;  these  few  weeks  of  sorrow  and  suffering 
had  transformed  a  light-hearted,  willful  little  beauty  of 
nineteen  into  a  worn  and  saddened  woman,  who  might 
from  her  looks  have  been  fully  ten  years  older. 

Sleep  was  not  to  be  thought  of  by  Dorothy  that  night. 
She  had  much,  very  much,  to  arrange  for  the  morrow. 
Hers  was  always  the  managing  brain  of  the  household, 
for  Phyllis  liked  to  have  everything  arranged  for  her,  and 
Cresswell,  beyond  a  limpet-like  fidelity,  possessed  few 
marked  characteristics  of  any  kind.  So  that  Dorothy, 
placed  too  early  in  a  position  of  absolute  authority,  had 
been  led  to  exaggerate  her  own  firmness  of  character, 
and  to  confuse  strength  of  feeling  with  strength  of  will. 

One  great  trouble  loomed  darkly  before  her — the  ques- 
tion of  money. 

It  was  impossible  not  to  see  that  Phyllis  required  most 
careful  nursing,  nourishing  diet,  and  the  best  medical 
skill  procurable.  Failing  these,  in  her  state  of  physical 
and  mental  prostration,  there  seemed  little  likelihood  that 
she  would  preserve  her  life  and  reason  through  the  trial 
which  lay  before  her. 

And  Dorothy  had  no  money  at  all. 

The  rent  of  number  one,  Lockhart  Cottages,  was  but 
ten  shillings  a  week,  and  the  patient  Cresswell  was  per- 
fectly willing  to  work  without  wages.  For  the  past  eigh- 
teen months  Dorothy  had  been  very  busy  executing 
hand-painted  cards  and  album  pages  for  a  city  firm,  and 
regularly  once  a  week  she  had  taken  her  way  to  the 
neighborhood  of  Smithfield  in  order  to  deliver  a  bulky 
parcel  of  work,  and  receive  in  return  from  five-and-twenty 
to  five-and-thirty  shillings,  according  to  the  low  rate  of 
pay  given  for  that  class  of  art  work.  Recently,  how- 
ever, the  demand  for  hand-painted  figures  and  flowers 
had  dropped,  and,  to   her  dismay,   Miss   Knight   had 


70  Ways  and  Means. 

learned  that  the  particular  firm  who  employed  her  pro- 
posed shortly  to  dispense  with  her  services  in  that  direc- 
tion. The  girl's  British  Museum  sketching  had  been 
undertaken  solely  with  a  view  to  supplementing  her 
knowledge  of  figure  drawing,  as  she  had  no  money  to  ob- 
tain lessons,  and  her  experience  as  an  artist  behind  the 
scenes  of  the  Grassmarket  was  the  first  of  its  kind,  so 
that  she  could  not  yet  know  whether  her  sketches  would 
be  accepted. 

Meantime  Phyllis,  whom  she  had  believed  to  be  happily 
in  the  receipt  of  two  pounds  ten  a  week  until  the  ap- 
proaching midsummer,  was  absolutely  penniless,  heavily 
in  debt,  without  even  suitable  clothing,  and  in  need  of  im- 
mediate help;  there  was  hardly  anything  in  the  house 
worth  selling  or  pawning,  and  all  the  money  which  Dor- 
othy possessed  in  the  world  was  thirty-three  shillings  in 
hand  and  one  pound  five  in  the  Post  Office  Savings 
Bank. 

Racking  her  brains  in  the  endeavor  to  see  a  way  out  of 
their  difficulties,  Dorothy  decided  that  the  business  of 
eating  "humble  pie"'  to  their  own  wealthy  relative  was  so 
eminently  repugnant  that  it  must  only  be  undertaken  as 
a  last  resource.  The  personage  in  question  was  not  even 
a  blood  relation,  but  only  a  great-aunt  by  marriage. 
Dorothy  had  not  seen  this  lady  for  some  years,  but  knew 
that  she  was  greatly  incensed  against  the  late  Mr.  Knight. 
Help  for  Phyllis  was  hardly  likely  to  come  from  that  quar- 
ter, she  decided,  almost  with  relief,  for  the  notion  of 
humbling  herself  before  a  consequential  and  purse-proud 
woman  was  intensely  distasteful  to  her. 

Meantime,  a  doctor  must  be  found  at  once.  The  sis- 
ters' health  through  all  their  trials  had  been  so  uniformly 
good  that  it  was  necessary  to  discover  a  physician  who 
would  undertake  the  case. 

At  seven  o'clock,  when  Dorothy  rose,  Phyllis  was  still 


Ways  and  Means.  71 

sleeping  heavily — the  dead,  motionless  repose  of  utter  ex- 
haustion. In  the  morning  light  her  face  looked  paler  and 
more  hollow  in  the  cheeks  than  on  the  preceding  evening. 
Like  a  lifeless  thing  she  lay,  her  long,  dark  lashes  in  sharp 
contrast  against  her  white  skin,  and  the  aureole  of  pale 
straw-colored  hair  tossed  over  the  pillow  and  toning  to  a 
natural  dark-brown  for  half  an  inch  above  the  roots. 

Dorothy  tenderly  kissed  her  sister's  wasted  hands,  try- 
ing vainly  to  restrain  her  tears,  and  registering  anon  in 
her  heart  a  vow  of  vengeance  against  Sergius  Trevelyan. 

In  her  anxiety  on  Phyllis'  account  she  decided  that  the 
best-known  doctor  of  the  neighborhood  should  attend 
upon  her.  The  man  with  the  largest  house  and  door- 
plate  and  practice  would  be  also,  in  all  probability,  better 
able  to  wait  a  little  while  for  his  money — at  least,  until 
Dorothy  had  a  chance  of  earning  it.  Acting  on  this  con- 
viction, Miss  Knight  found  herself  at  half-past  eight 
o'clock  before  the  door  of  Dr.  Morgan,  whose  stately 
man-servant  scarcely  troubled  to  conceal  a  yawn  as  he 
stared  superciliously  on  the  shabbily-dressed  matutinal 
visitor. 

Luckily  for  Dorothy's  errand,  the  doctor  himself  came 
down  his  broad  oak  staircase  to  breakfast  while  she  still 
parleyed  with  the  man  in  the  hall.  Dr.  Morgan  was  a 
tall,  well-built  man  of  about  sixty  years  of  age,  with  a 
fresh-colored  skin,  a  short  silver  beard  and  mustache, 
and  singularly  shrewd  and  kindly  blue  eyes. 

The  sweetness  of  his  visitor's  voice  and  the  beauty  of 
her  face  arrested  his  attention,  and,  much  to  his  servant's 
disgust,  he  at  once  led  the  way  into  the  consultation  room, 
listened  with  much  kindness  while  she  stated  her  sister's 
case,  and  promised  to  come  round  to  Lockhart  Cottages 
within  half  an  hour's  time. 

Lockhart  Cottages  were  not  used  to  visitors  of  such 
distinguished  appearance,  and  the  doctor  found  himself 


72  Ways  and  Means. 

wondering  greatly  how  a  girl  of  refinement  and  education 
came  to  live  amid  such  humble  and  poverty-stricken  sur- 
roundings, the  while  the  numerous  brood  of  children,  be- 
longing respectively  to  the  charwoman  who  lived  next 
door,  the  sweep  who  lived  over  the  way,  and  the  lady  who 
took  in  mangling,  assembled  to  stare  upon  the  great  man 
when  he  left  his  carriage  and  came  up  the  paved  way  be- 
tween the  Board  School  buildings  to  Dorothy's  door. 

He  was  yet  more  interested  when  a  second  pale  and 
beautiful  woman,  singularly  like  his  first  acquaintance, 
was  introduced  to  him  as  his  new  patient.  Phyllis  was 
with  difficulty  aroused  from  her  heavy,  lethargic  slumber 
nor  could  she  easily  be  made -to  understand  the  ques- 
tions addressed  to  her.  Dr.  Morgan's  practiced  eyes  in- 
stantly took  in  the  signs  of  cruel  anxiety  of  the  mind  and 
semi-starvation  of  the  body  which  the  invalid  only  too 
plainly  showed.  Drawing  Cresswell  apart,  as  the  oldest 
woman  present,  he  began  to  question  her  about  her  young 
mistress. 

But  Cresswell  burst  into  tears.  She  was  a  short,  thin 
woman  of  fifty,  with  handsome  aquiline  features,  which, 
together  with  a  habitual  gravity  and  taciturnity,  im- 
pressed observers  with  a  sense  of  dignity  and  intelligence 
which  she  was  far  from  possessing. 

"Don't  ask  me,  sir,"  she  cried,  nervously.  "Ask  Miss 
Dorothy.  Miss  Phyllis  only  came  back  last  night  while  I 
was  abed  and  asleep.  When  I  found  her  here  this  morn- 
ing it  gave  me  such  a  turn ;  I  can't  get  over  it !  She  is 
that  altered,  too,  I  don't  know  her." 

"Where  is  her  husband?" 

"Oh,  don't  ask  me,  sir.  I  didn't  know  she  had  one. 
Leastways,  don't  take  it  from  me.  She  may  have  got 
married  without  telling  us.  But  she'll  get  well,  won't 
she,  sir?" 


Ways  and  Means.  73 

"Ask  your  mistress  to  come  down  and  speak  to  me," 
was  the  doctor's  only  answer. 

In  the  little  front  sitting-room  Dorothy  found  him 
studying  the  contents  of  the  book  shelves  with  his  back 
to  the  door.  Turning  as  she  entered,  he  fixed  his  keen 
blue  eyes  upon  her. 

''Your  sister  is  in  a  very  bad  way,"  he  said,  abruptly. 
"Where  is  her  husband?" 

Dorothy  grew  red  and  white  by  turns. 

"He  is  in  the  country,"  she  answered,  constrainedly. 
"I  don't  know  his  address,  and  my  sister  is  too  ill  to  tell  it 
to  me,"  she  added  quickly. 

"I  hear  she  only  came  here  last  night.  She  was  not  in 
a  fit  state  to  travel." 

"She  walked  here  from  Richmond,"  burst  from  Dor- 
othy, who  forgot  her  reserve  in  her  anger. 

"Walked !    Good  heavens !" 

He  turned  his  back  upon  her  quickly,  and  stood  before 
the  book-shelves  again,  that  he  might  not  see  the  passion- 
ate indignation  and  pain  on  her  face.  He  already  guessed 
as  much  of  the  case  as  Dorothy  could  tell  him. 

"Dr.  Morgan,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  she  could  control 
her  voice,  "my  sister  is  only  nineteen.  While  she  was 
away  from  me  last  year  she  had  the  ill-fortune  to  meet 
and  marry  a  cowardly  scoundrel,  who  has  deserted  her 
and  left  her  to  starve.  Thank  Heaven,  she  managed  to 
make  her  way  back  to  me.  I  know  her  heart  is  broken, 
but  you  can  save  her  life,  can  you  not  ?" 

The  doctor  looked  kindly  down  into  the  girl's  beautiful, 
eager  face.  It  was  a  terrible  pity,  he  decided  privately, 
for  girls  to  be  so  poor,  and  at  the  same  time  so  remarka- 
bly handsome.  Theirs  was  not  the  safe,  statuesque  beau- 
ty such  as  a  man  may  comfortably  worship  from  afar,  or 
happily  give  in  marriage  to  another  man ;  but  essentially 
soft,  feminine,  and  innocently  alluring.    Even  Dr.  Mor- 


74  Ways  and  Means. 

gan  felt  more  cousinly  than  fatherly  as  he  contemplated 
Miss  Knight's  lovely  flushed  face,  appealing  grey  eyes 
shining  through  tears,  and  parted  rose-pink  lips.  Girls 
of  that  type  were  bound  to  be  worried  with  passions  and 
romances  and  tragedies  if  they  were  not  married  off 
young,  and  the  only  wonder  in  the  doctor's  mind  was  that 
it  was  the  younger  and  by  far  the  less  good-looking  of 
the  two,  who  was  the  sufferer  on  this  occasion. 

"I  will  do  my  utmost  for  your  sisler,"  he  said  kindly. 
"Get  this  prescription  made  up  immediately;  she  must 
take  it  every  two  hours.  A  little  weak  brandy  and  water 
and  some  beef  tea  must  be  given  at  frequent  intervals  dur- 
ing the  day.  I  will  call  again  in  a  few  hours'  time.  Your 
sister  has  simply  no  pulse  at  all.  She  will  require  con- 
stant watching  and  attendance  night  and  day.  From  what 
I  have  seen  of  your  old  servant  she  does  not  seem  a  suit- 
able person  to  have  in  a  sick  room,  and  you  yourself  don't 
look  too  robust.  A  trained  nurse  should  be  engaged  at 
once." 

"I  can  undertake  the  night-work,"  faltered  Dorothy, 
"but  during  the  day  I  generally  have  a  good  deal  to  do 
and  cannot  be  always  at  home." 

She  already  saw  beggary  staring  them  in  the  face. 
Two  pounds  eighteen  would  certainly  not  go  far  with  a 
trained  nurse  in  the  house  demanding  two  guineas  a  week 
and  her  food,  and  with  no  more  painting  orders  coming 
from  the  city.  Something  of  the  consternation  she  felt 
must  have  shown  itself  in  her  face,  as  Dr.  Morgan's  next 
words  proved. 

"Perhaps,"  he  suggested,  "you  have  relatives  or  friends 
in  London?  They  should  certainly  be  informed  of  your 
sister's  condition,  and  of  the  care  and  necessary  expense 
required  in  such  a  serious  case  as  hers.  I  will  not  dis- 
guise from  you  that  her  life  and  her  reason  are  equally  in 
danger  at  the  present  time.    The  body  is  absolutely  ema- 


Ways  and  Means.  75 

ciated,  and  the  mind  crushed  by  some  terrible  shock  or 
strain.  Neither  one  nor  the  other  is  in  fit  condition  to 
pass  safely  through  the  ordeal  before  her,  and " 

"Don't !"  cried  Miss  Knight,  suddenly  pushing  out  her 
hands  with  an  imploring  gesture.  "I  can't  bear  to  hear 
it !  I  beg  your  pardon,  Dr.  Morgan,"  she  added  in  a  low 
voice,  while  a  deep  flush  passed  over  her  face,  "but — I 
can't  quite  explain  what  my  sister  is  to  me.  Our  mother 
died  when  we  were  very  little  children,  and  our  father 
three  years  ago.  Our  only  brother  left  England  years 
ago.  We  do  not  know  what  has  become  of  him.  Phyllis 
is  all  I  have  in  the  world.  You  cannot  tell  by  seeing  her 
now  what  she  was  only  a  few  months  ago.  And — per- 
haps the  poor  darling's  wretchedness  may  have  given  you 
a  wrong  idea — before  last  Christmas  she  was  married  to 
an  actor  in  the  same  company  with  her  in  the  town  of 
Sheffield.  I  have  never  seen  him,  but  he  must  be  the 
lowest  and  vilest  thing  on  earth  to  have  treated  my  sister 
so  cruelly.  You  don't  know  how  sweet,  and  good,  and 
bright,  and  pretty  she  has  always  been.  Of  course,"  she 
went  on,  turning  sharply  away,  and  pressing  her  handker- 
chief tightly  against  her  eyes  to  force  back  her  tears,  "I 
ought  not  to  bother  you  with  these  details.  My  sister 
shall  have  just  what  you  order,  Dr.  Morgan.  I  will  take 
your  advice  and  consult  with  our  relatives.  For  we  have 
quite  rich  relations,"  she  continued,  with  a  little  nervous 
laugh,  "although  it  seems  difficult  to  believe  of  people  liv- 
ing in  Lockhart  Cottages,  and  we  used  to  live  decently 
ourselves  once.  But  that  time  passed  away  three  years 
ago.  Please  let  me  know  where  to  go  for  the  nurse.  My 
sister  must  have  everything  she  requires — and  I  am  sure 
you  will  save  her  if  any  one  can." 

She  turned  the  full  gaze  of  her  clear  eyes  trustfully  upon 
him.  Dr.  Morgan  was  deeply  interested  in  this  beautiful, 
emotional  creature,  over  whose  face  the  course  of  every 


j6  Ways  and  Means. 

feeling  was  plainly  shown.  Her  pride  and  weakness,  her 
repellent  coldness  and  appealing  gentleness  alternately 
combined  to  make  up  a  personality  as  fascinating  as  it  was 
out  of  the  common  run  of  his  experiences.  He  thought 
about  her  for  fully  half  an  hour  after  he  had  returned  to 
his  spacious,  solemn  house,  presided  over  by  his  widowed 
sister.  But  a  fashionable  doctor  has  many  demands  upon 
his  time,  his  skill,  and,  above  all,  upon  that  quality  which 
some  call  sympathy,  and  others  magnetism.  Between  his 
first  and  second  visit  to  Lockhart  Cottages  upon  that  par- 
ticular Sunday,  Dr.  Morgan  was  successively  called  to  the 
bedside  of  a  wealthy  paralyzed  octogenarian,  an  anemic 
schoolgirl,  and  a  middle-aged  dipsomaniac,  and  the  keen 
edge  of  his  sympathy  was  by  necessity  blunted  by  such 
exhausting  contact.  On  the  occasion  of  his  second  call 
upon  his  new  patient  her  sister  was  absent,  having  per- 
force summoned  up  sufficient  endurance  to  face  an  inter- 
view with  Mrs.  Julia  Knight,  of  Belvidere  Gardens,  Hyde 
Park,  the  wealthy  widow  of  her  father's  uncle. 

Mrs.  Julius  Knight  lived  and  dined  in  a  spacious  stucco 
mansion  in  Bayswater.  Advisedly  be  it  mentioned  that 
she  dined,  for  dinner  to  Mrs.  Knight — a  perfectly  served, 
admirably  cooked  dinner — was  the  aim  and  end  of  exist- 
ence. To  entertain  friends  at  the  evening  meal,  to  dazzle 
them  by  the  expensiveness  of  her  silver  and  her  hand- 
painted  dessert  plates,  the  excellence  of  her  chef's  entre- 
mets and  the  bouquet  of  her  wine  cellar's  treasures,  these 
were  the  chief  joys  of  Mrs.  Julius  Knight's  choosing,  and 
they  ranked  almost  higher  in  her  estimation  than  the 
blessed  privilege  of  wearing  more  expensive  gowns  and 
better  diamonds  than  any  of  her  guests  could  afford  to 
display. 

The  late  Mr.  Julius  Knight  had  been  something  highly 
successful  in  the  city.  In  middle  age  he  had  married  a 
plump,  talkative  and  handsome  foreign  lady,  who  for  ten 


Ways  and  Means.  jj 

years  alternately  snubbed  and  patronized  him,  while  she 
divided  what  affection  she  had  to  give  between  her  favor- 
ite dog  and  her  favorite  nephew,  the  latter  being  Harold 
Knight,  father  of  Phyllis  and  Dorothy. 

Circumstances  had  intervened  to  severely  test  the  par- 
tiality shown  by  Mrs.  Julius  Knight  for  her  husband's 
nephew,  and  with  the  remembrance  of  them  weighing 
heavily  upon  her  heart,  Dorothy  stood  on  the  steps  of  her 
great  aunt's  huge  grey  stucco  mansion  in  Bayswater  in 
the  afternoon  of  that  midsummer  Sunday,  and  asked  the 
pompous  footman  who  opened  the  door  to  convey  her 
card  to  Mrs.  Knight  and  ask  if  that  lady  could  grant  her 
a  few  minutes'  conversation. 

This  was  the  second  time  in  one  day  that  a  footman  had 
looked  down  upon  Miss  Knight,  with  a  fine  contempt  for 
her  shabby  clothes  effacing  any  possible  admiration  of  her 
beautiful  figure  and  face.  Dorothy  felt  this  bitterly, 
knowing  quite  well  that  her  aunt's  servant's  "young  wo- 
man" would  be  much  smarter  on  her  Sundays  out  than 
she  herself  could  ever  afford  to  be. 

"Very  sorry,  miss,  but  Mrs.  Knight's  hout." 
"You  had  better  take  Mrs.  Knight  my  card." 
The  man  glanced  at  it  superciliously,  but,  seeing  the 
name,  his  expression  changed,  and  he  asked  her  to  wait 
while  he  "saw  whether  his  mistress  had  returned."  He 
reappeared  very  shortly  and  conducted  Dorothy  to  a  little 
boudoir  on  the  first  floor,  one  of  Mrs.  Knight's  private 
apartments,  which  included  also  her  bed-room,  her  bath- 
room and  her  dressing-room. 

The  boudoir  was  hung  with  pale  blue  quilted  satin  and 
panels  of  looking-glass.  The  window  opened  out  into  a 
small  fernery,  and  the  sunlight  glittered  on  a  shoal  of 
goldfish  swimming  round  a  marble  basin,  raised  on  slen- 
der columns  a  few  feet  from  the  ground,  and  sporting  a 
little  splashing  fountain.     A  small,  white,  long-eared  dog 


yS  Ways  and  Means. 

sprang  from  a  cushioned  basket  to  bark  furiously  on  Dor- 
othy's entrance,  and  two  black  and  white  Persian  kittens 
stopped  righting  to  stare  at  her  with  round,  gray  eyes.  A 
dainty  coffee  service  of  eggshell  china,  set  in  filagree  sil- 
ver, stood  on  a  little  inlaid  table  before  a  luxurious  sofa 
plentifully  supplied  with  embroidered  cushions,  while  a 
chased  gold  box  of  cigarettes  testified  to  the  foreign  tastes 
of  the  mistress  of  the  house.  Every  now  and  then  the 
room  was  filled  with  clear,  shrill  outbursts  of  song  from 
one  or  other  of  the  canaries  in  gilded  cages,  of  which 
three  were  suspended  from  the  ceiling ;  a  half-cut  French 
novel  in  a  yellow  paper  cover  lay  on  the  table,  closed 
upon  a  jeweled  toy  of  a  paper-knife,  and  the  observation 
of  this  last  expensive  trifle  seemed  to  fill  up  the  measure 
of  bitterness  which  had  been  accumulating  in  Dorothy's 
heart  ever  since  she  had  set  her  foot  within  the  house  of 
her  wealthy  relative.     - 

The  paper-knife  was  of  oxidized  silver,  set  with  tiny 
pearls  and  turquoise,  and  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  it,  Dor- 
othy saw  in  her  mind  that  picture  of  a  deserted,  half- 
starved  woman,  huddled  on  a  bench  of  Richmond  Bridge, 
with  her  wan  face  upturned  to  the  stars. 

A  stifled  sob  rose  in  her  throat ;  she  left  the  seat  and 
stood  with  her  back  to  the  door,  trying  to  force  down  her 
tears.  A  rustle  of  stiff  silk  skirts  made  her  turn  suddenly 
to  find  her  great-aunt  looking  at  her  critically  through  a 
pair  of  long-handled  tortoise-shell  eyeglasses,  on  which 
her  monogram  was  written  in  diamonds. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

DOROTHY    VISITS    HER    AUNT. 

Mrs.  Julius  Knight  was  a  very  tall,  very  stout  woman 
of  sixty,  who  still  retained  some  pretentions  to  beauty  of 
a  mature  and  fully-developed  order.  Her  elaborately 
dressed  hair  was  only  a  little  streaked  with  gray,  and  her 
well-opened  black  eyes,  of  naturally  quick  and  even  bel- 
ligerent expression,  looked  out  upon  the  world  almost  as 
brightly  as  they  had  done  thirty  years  before.  Her  din- 
ner gown  was  of  pink  and  gray  brocade  hung  with  costly 
white  lace,  and  upon  the  ample  surface  of  her  neck,  in 
her  ears,  and  on  her  fingers,  diamonds  and  sapphires 
flashed  and  gleamed. 

"So !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  loud,  clear  voice  and  strong 
foreign  accent,  "it  is  my  niece  Dorothy.  At  last  she  gives 
herself  the  trouble  to  come  and  see  her  aunt.  It  is  to  ask 
a  favor,  hein  ?  Do  not  tell  me ;  I  know  the  world.  When 
one  neglects  one's  best  friends  for  three  or  four  years  one 
comes  not  in  to  say:  'What  fine  weather  we  have  to- 
day!'" 

Dorothy's  eyes  were  lowered,  and  a  deep  flush  of  shame 
spread  over  her  face. 

"I  did  not  think,  Aunt  Dorothea,  that  you  would  care 
to  see  me." 

"Oh,  well,  I  do  not  say  I  am  proud  of  the  connection," 
Mrs.  Knight  returned  sharply.  "My  nephew  Harold, 
your  father,  who  cheated  me  out  of  five  thousand  pounds 
of  my  money,  and  then  put  a  bullet  through  his  head  be- 
cause he  could  not  square  his  clients'  accounts — that  is 


80  Dorothy  Visits  Her  Aunt. 

not  a  relation  to  be  very  proud  of,  hein?  It  is  not  very 
good  for  one's  name  in  the  world  to  have  a  nephew  like 
tnat." 

Dorothy  had  grown  very  pale,  but  her  eyes  flashed 
ominously. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  trying  to  steady  her  voice,  "it  has 
been  a  little  hard  for  his  daughters,  too." 

Mrs.  Knight  looked  at  her  quickly  for  a  moment,  then 
she  shrugged  her  plump  shoulders. 

"After  all,"  she  said,  "you  were  such  children,  not  much 
more  than  sixteen  and  seventeen,  and  your  father,  in  spite 
of  the  muddle  he  had  made  of  his  affairs,  left,  so  they  told 
me,  a  few  thousands." 

"Every  penny  of  which  was  paid  to  his  creditors  within 
a  few  weeks  of  his  death,"  Dorothy  returned,  looking  her 
relative  proudly  in  the  face.  "Mr.  Sutcliffe,  our  father's 
lawyer,  could  have  told  you  that  had  you  asked  him." 

Mrs.  Knight  was  silent  for  a  few  seconds,  and  some- 
thing like  regret  swept  over  her  face. 

"Enfin !    How,  then,  have  you  lived  ?" 

"We  haven't  lived,  Aunt  Dorothea.  We  have  existed 
only,  as  best  we  could.  I  raised  about  eighty  pounds  by 
selling  some  trinkets  of  mamma's,  and  poor  Cresswell, 
who  would  not  leave  us,  lent  us  thirty  pounds.  I  took  a 
cottage  near  Hammersmith,  after  hunting  a  long  while 
for  any  place  cheap  enough  for  us,  and  we  have  managed 
somehow  until  now  with  teaching  drawing  and  music, 
and  with  my  designs,  and — other  work." 

She  hated  to  have  to  relate  her  sister's  story,  at  least 
until  her  great-aunt's  pity  and  interest  had  been  aroused. 

"Tut,  tut !"  muttered  Mrs.  Knight,  beginning  to  rustle 
restlessly  about  the  room.  "It  is  absurd!  I  never 
through — well,  why  did  you  not  come  to  me  ?" 

"How  could  I  ?"  burst  indignantly  from  Dorothy's  lips, 
"after  the  angry  letter  from  you  which  poor  papa  received 


Dorothy  Visits  Her  Aunt.  81 

on  the  very  day  he  died,  telling  him  not  to  hope  for  any 
help  from  you  for  himself  or  for  us  ?  I  believe  that  letter, 
coming  as  it  did  just  when  he  was  half  mad  with  worry 
over  his  losses  and  his  mistakes " 

She  stopped  abruptly.  Mrs.  Knight  stood  before  her, 
her  dark  eyes  ablaze  with  anger. 

"So!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  are  come  here  to-day,  my 
dutiful  niece,  to  tell  me  that  I  killed  your  father? — that  I 
am  a  murderess  ?" 

"I  came  to  say  nothing  of  the  kind,"  rang  from  Doro- 
thy, half-distracted.  "I  came  to  ask  for  help  for  my  sis- 
ter, who  is  half-starved  and  dying !" 

The  words  "half-starved"  impressed  Mrs.  Knight  more 
strongly  than  any  others  Dorothy  could  have  chosen. 

"Not  half-starved !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  low,  shocked 
voice ;  "do  not  say  that,  my  niece !" 

"Yes,  it  is  true !  Half-starved  and  dying  on  Richmond 
Bridge  only  two  nights  ago.  Desperately  ill,  and  de- 
serted by  her  husband.  Think  of  it,  Aunt  Dorothea.  I 
would  never  have  come  to  you  for  help  for  myself.  I 
am  quite  well,  and  I  can  work.  But  the  doctor  has  seen 
Phyllis  to-day,  and  he  tells  me  that  she  will  be  very,  very 
ill  for  many  weeks  yet;  that  her  life  and  her  reason  are 
both  in  danger,  and  that  she  must  have  good  wine  and 
soups,  and  nourishing  food,  and  expensive  medicines,  and 
a  trained  nurse  to  be  with  her  night  and  day.  And  I — 
I  haven't  three  pounds  in  the  world !" 

She  broke  down  at  last,  and,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands,  wept  bitterly. 

Mrs.  Knight  looked  at  her,  fidgeted  about  the  room, 
and  then,  coming  up  behind  her,  shook  her  roughly  but 
not  unkindly  by  the  shoulders. 

"Do  not  cry— do  not  cry!"  she  said.  "Of  course  I 
will  help  you.    I  will  send  you  some  good  wine  and  good 


82  Dorothy  Visits  Her  Aunt. 

soups.  It  was  very  silly  not  to  come  to  me  before.  It 
was  your  naughty,  stupid  pride,  and  I  will  pay  the  doctor, 
the  nurse — everything.  Leave  off  crying,  do  you  hear? 
It  upsets  me  and  makes  me  ill  to  see  crying,  and  in  half 
an  hour  my  guests  for  dinner  will  arrive — Sir  John  Simp- 
son and  his  wife,  and  the  Baroness  Wiegenthurn,  and 
Dr.  Westall,  and  Alderman  Jackson.  If  you  cry  you  will 
make  me  cry,  too,  and  that  will  spoil  my  looks  and  make 
me  ill.  Now,  sit  down  by  me  and  tell  me  the  truth.  How 
did  you  allow  your  sister  to  leave  you  and  get  married? 
And  who  is  her  husband?  What  is  his  name?  Where 
did  she  meet  him  ?  Why  was  I  not  told  ?  All  this  is  very 
serious,  and  I  must  hear  the  truth — all  the  truth." 

She  settled  herself  comfortably  among  the  cushions  of 
the  sofa  and  motioned  Dorothy  to  a  place  beside  her,  tak- 
ing the  girl's  thin  hand  between  her  plump,  bejeweled 
fingers.  Thus  encouraged,  Miss  Knight  dried  her  tears 
and  began  her  story. 

"Two  years  ago,  when  Phyllis  was  seventeen,  I  wanted 
her  to  become  a  governess;  but  she  hated  the  idea,  and 
would  go  on  the  stage." 

"Ah !  surely  you  did  not  let  her  ?" 

"I  tried  to  prevent  it.  But  she  got  an  engagement  at 
a  guinea  a  week  in  London,  and  then  a  year  later  another, 
at  thirty  shillings.  We  were  very  glad  of  the  money. 
In  the  autumn  of  last  year  Phyllis  went  away  to  travel  for 
two  seasons  of  twenty  weeks  each  with  a  great  London 
success.  She  was  to  have  two  pounds  ten  a  week,  and  it 
seemed  a  fortune  to  us.  For  eight  months  I  did  not  see 
her.  I  wrote  constantly,  and  she  answered  sometimes. 
I  hoped  to  see  her  at  Christmas,  but — well,  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter now.  Aunt  Dorothea,  remember,  last  year  she  was 
only  eighteen ;  she  had  never  been  away  from  me  before, 
and  the  people  on  the  tour  were  common,  selfish  and  un- 
congenial.   She  had  no  companions  or  friends  except  one 


Dorothy  Visits  Her  Aunt.  83 

man,  very  handsome,  and  educated  as  a  gentleman.  He 
tried  his  utmost  to  make  Phyllis  fall  in  love  with  him,  and 
at  last  he  succeeded. 

A  hard  look  came  about  the  corners  of  Mrs.  Knight's 
mouth.  She  had  never  been  in  love  herself,  and  had 
little  sympathy  with  victims  of  the  tender  passion. 

"What  was  the  *nan's  name?"  she  asked  coldly. 

"He  called  himself  Sergius  Trevelyan." 

"Called  himself!     What  do  you  mean?" 

"On  the  stage,  aunt,  people  generally  take  other  names. 
Trevelyan  was  not  his  real  name." 

"What  was  his  real  name,  then?  I  do  not  understand 
these  theatre  customs." 

"I— I  don't  know." 

"You  don't  know  the  name  of  your  sister's  husband!" 

Mrs.  Knight's  round,  black  eyes  opened  wider  than 
ever. 

"Don't  you  understand,  Aunt  Dorothea?"  cried  Doro- 
thy in  desperation.  "Phyllis  is  half-delirious  from  ill- 
ness, and  can  tell  me  nothing.  She  only  came  home  to  me 
last  night  very  late,  having  walked  all  the  way  from  Rich- 
mond, although  she  was  almost  too  weak  to  stand.  To- 
day she  hardly  knows  me,  and  cannot  speak  above  a  whis- 

—  » 

per. 

"And  where  is  her  husband  ?" 

"She  does  not  know." 

"Allons!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Knight  impatiently.  "It  is 
too  absurd — this  husband  who  has  no  name  and  no  home ! 
Dorothy,"  she  went  on  sternly,  "I  hope  that  you  do  not 
deceive  me.  I  hope  that  he  exists,  this  wonderful  hus- 
band." 

"How  could  you  suspect  Phyllis  of  doing  anything  that 
is  not  good  and  pure?"  exclaimed  Dorothy,  starting  up 
from  her  seat  and  beginning  to  walk  up  and  down  the 


84  Dorothy  Visits  Her  Aunt. 

room  with  hand  interlocked.     "Phyllis  was  married  to 
this  Trevelyan  at  Sheffield  last  November." 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  she  was  married?" 

"It  was  a  secret,  Aunt  Dorothea.  He  made  her  prom- 
ise to  let  no  one  know.  I  only  learned  the  truth  last  night. 
And  he  has  cruelly,  shamefully  deceived  her.  Two 
months  ago  she  was  informed  that  when  he  first  met  her 
he  was  already  married,  and  when  she  taxed  him  with  it 
he  did  not  deny  it." 

"You  mean  to  say,"  Mrs.  Knight  put  in,  looking  harder 
than  ever,  "that  your  sister  is  not  the  wife  of  this  mys- 
terious person ;  that  she  is,  in  fact,  not  married  at  all  ?" 

Dorothy  bowed  her  head,  her  cheeks  hot  with  blushes 
for  the  undeserved  shame  which  shadowed  her  beloved 
Phyllis. 

"Then  I  tell  you,"  exclaimed  her  aunt,  rising  also  and 
speaking  with  much  emphasis  and  vigor,  "that  your  sister 
is  deceiving  you,  and  that  she  has  not  been  married  at  all  ? 
Bah !  Do  not  tell  me  a  man  commits  bigamy  for  the  sake 
of  a  girl  like  Phyllis  Knight !  She  was  never  a  favorite 
with  me — she  was  too  vain  and  too  pert.  You  and  your 
father  spoiled  her.  Now  you,  if  you  had  a  little  more 
embonpoint,  would  be  a  very  pretty  girl  indeed.  But 
Phyllis — no!  It  is  a  fairy  tale,  this  unknown  husband 
and  this  Sheffield  marriage.  I  have  no  sympathy,  I,  with 
such  girls.  A  girl  who  is  a  lady  should  know  how  to 
make  herself  respected.  If  she  fails,  peste !  men  are  men, 
and  she  knows  what  she  has  to  expect.  Look  at  me.  I 
have  been  beautiful,  much,  much  more  beautiful  than  your 
Phyllis,  and  I  have  also  been  eighteen  and  alone  in  the 
world.  But  do  you  think  I  would  have  let  a  man  make  a 
fool  of  me?  No!  And  nor  would  you,  my  niece,  Doro- 
thea !  As  to  Phyllis,  I  cannot  sympathize,  and  I  will  not 
see  her.  She  is  the  daughter  of  her  father,  and  a  disgrace 
to  you  and  to  me.    You  will  do  well  to  put  her  into  a 


Dorothy  Visits  Her  Aunt.  85 

hospital  and  forget  all  about  her,  lest  she  make  you  lost 
and  bad  like  herself !" 

"Stop!"  cried  Dorothy,  trembling  with  anger.  "I  can- 
not allow  you  or  any  one  to  speak  in  such  terms  of  my  sis- 
ter Phyllis.  What  has  happened  to  her  might  happen  to 
any  woman,  however  good — to  you  yourself  as  well  as  any 
other.  The  sanction  of  the  church  is  the  one  and  only 
safeguard  a  woman  has  against  a  man's  wickedness. 
Such  a  man  as  this  Trevelyan  knows  quite  well  that  a 
woman  like  Phyllis  would  never  make  her  wrongs  public 
by  prosecuting  him  for  bigamy.  She  is  too  gentle  and  too 
soft-hearted  to  desire  the  punishment  of  any  one  she  has 
once  loved  and  trusted,  however  much  he  may  have  in- 
jured her.  She  cannot  hate  as  I  can.  But  every  true 
woman  should  surely  help  and  protect  her  now,  when  by 
a  man's  wickedness  her  heart  has  been  broken  and  her 
whole  life  spoiled." 

"A  man's  wickedness,"  Mrs.  Knight  repeated  im- 
patiently. "Bah !  You  speak  as  a  child,  my  niece.  That 
sort  of  wickedness  is  half-and-half.  I  have  not  a  doubt 
Phyllis  has  deceived  you.  She  went  on  the  stage,  she  got 
into  bad  company,  and  she  invented  all  this  charming  little 
story  of  a  false  marriage  to  account  for  the  result.  It  is 
a  fairy  tale.  If  she  had  really  been  married,  think  you 
she  would  have  kept  it  a  secret  from  you?  I  know  hu- 
man nature — girl's  nature.  If  a  girl  gets  an  offer,  presto ! 
she  writes  to  a  hundred  particular  friends ;  but  if  she  gets 
married,  even  if  it  is  to  a  pauper  with  one  eye,  what  does 
she  do  but  advertise  in  all  the  papers,  and  send  out  cake 
and  cards  so  that  all  the  world  may  know  she  has  at 
length  got  a  husband  ?  No !  Phyllis  is  a  silly  girl,  and  a 
bad  girl,  but  her  lies  are  of  no  use  with  me !" 

"I  will  not  stay  to  hear  my  sister  insulted !"  cried  Miss 
Knight,  her  eyes  ablaze.  "Good-by,  Aunt  Dorothea,  and 
I  will  pray  God  to  send  you  a  little  charity." 


86  Dorothy  Visits  Her  Aunt. 

"Ah,  a  propos!  Charity  is  what  you  came  for,"  re- 
turned her  aunt,  getting  angry,  too.  "Beggars,  Doro- 
thy, must  not  be  choosers  of  the  words  they  receive  with 
their  gifts." 

"I  would  rather  we  both  should  starve  than  that  we 
should  accept  anything  from  you  now,"  retorted  the 
younger  woman,  and  without  another  word  she  had 
walked  down  the  two  flights  of  stairs  and  out  at  the  front 
door  of  thirty-seven  Belvidere  Gardens  in  rather  less  time 
than  it  takes  to  relate  it,  leaving  her  great-aunt  in  a  state 
of  high  indignation  and  considerable  astonishment. 

To  her  credit,  be  it  said,  that  after  forty  years  of  pam- 
pering and  flattery,  Mrs.  Knight  felt  exceedingly  uncom- 
fortable on  the  subject  of  her  young  relative,  and  not 
without  a  secret  admiration  for  the  girl  who,  while  pos- 
sessing on  her  own  confession  less  than  three  pounds  in 
the  world,  could  yet  resent  so  fiercely  any  attack  on  her 
sister's  good  name  from  the  woman  whose  help  she  came 
to  crave. 

Within  a  very  few  minutes  of  Dorothy's  hasty  depart- 
ure, one  of  Mrs.  Knight's  servants  was  sent  in  search  of 
her,  with  orders  to  bring  her  back  immediately.  His 
mistress  meanwhile  wrote  out  a  check  for  fifty  pounds, 
payable  to  Miss  Dorothy  Knight,  which  gift,  however, 
was  never  destined  to  reach  that  young  lady.  The  lazy 
and  supercilious  footman  greatly  resented  being  sent  out 
on  Sunday  evening  in  chase  after  a  shabbily-dressed 
young  woman ;  he  did  not  see  her,  nor  did  he  try  to  do  so, 
but  he  returned  after  half-an-hour's  pleasant  stroll  in  the 
park  to  report  that  she  had  completely  disappeared. 

Mrs.  Knight  for  once  failed  to  enjoy  her  dinner,  and 
on  many  subsequent  days  her  thoughts  flew  to  the  two 
sisters,  leading  their  struggling,  starving  existence  in  the 
little  cottage  near  Hammersmith,  in  which  unfashionable 
neighborhood  Mrs.  Knight's  fat  carriage  horses  were  fre- 


Dorothy  Visits  Her  Aunt.  87 

quently  to  be  seen  about  that  time.  But  although  she  told 
herself  that  the  girl's  pride  would  of  a  certainty  give  way, 
and  that  they  would  then  again  apply  to  her,  her  expecta- 
tions were  unfulfilled,  and  to  the  last  day  of  her  life  she 
was  never  fated  to  again  behold  Harold  Knight's  orphan 
children. 

As  to  Dorothy,  long  before  she  reached  home  she  knew 
what  a  mistake  she  had  made,  and  bitterly  reproached  her- 
self for  letting  her  temper  get  the  better  of  her  judgment. 
She  tried  to  comfort  herself  by  determining  to  devote  the 
whole  of  the  next  day  to  seeking  fresh  employment  in 
drawing.  It  was  also  absolutely  necessary,  as  she  told 
herself  with  a  shudder  of  repugnance  and  disgust,  that 
she  must  find  out  where  this  Sergius  Trevelyan  was  hid- 
ing, and  have  an  interview  with  him.  He  must  be  forced 
to  give  names,  dates  and  proofs  with  regard  to  his  pre- 
vious marriage,  if  such  indeed  had  taken  place  at  all.  His 
real  name  must  also  be  found  out  and  his  relatives  com- 
municated with,  so  that  he  might  be  forced  to  provide  for 
Phyllis.  Perhaps  even  his  wife,  Millie  Clements,  whom 
he  had  met  on  a  singing  tour  in  America,  might  be  in- 
duced to  divorce  him  since  desertion  and  bigamy  could  be 
proved,  in  which  case  Phyllis  might  still  be  legally  mar- 
ried to  him. 

"If,  indeed,  she  desired  such  a  position,"  Dorothy 
thought,  with  lip  curled  in  disdain.  "For  my  part,  I 
would  die  rather  than  accept  the  name  of  such  a  cur.  But 
my  poor  darling  does  not  take  things  as  I  do." 

The  nurse  chosen  by  Dr.  Morgan  arrived  that  same 
evening,  a  kindly,  business-like  person,  in  whom  Dorothy 
at  once  placed  entire  confidence.  Phyllis  was  desperately 
ill;  youth  and  a  clear  health  record  were  upon  her  side, 
but  Dr.  Morgan's  questions  elicited  the  fact  that  Mrs. 
Harold  Knight  had  died  of  heart  disease,  and  there  were 
sure  signs  of  heart  weakness  in  her  younger  daughter. 


88  Dorothy  Visits  Her  Aunt. 

Half  the  night  Dorothy  spent  in  her  sister's  room,  and 
half  on  her  knees  at  her  own  bedside.  She  dared  not  put 
her  prayer  for  her  sister's  life  into  articulate  speech;  a 
superstitious  terror  lest  her  entreaty  should  seem  impious 
restrained  her.  If  such  terrible  misfortunes  had  unde- 
servedly fallen  upon  Phyllis  in  spite  of  her  sister's  nightly 
prayers,  might  she  not  just  as  undeservedly,  as  it  seemed 
to  one  who  loved  her,  be  cut  off  from  life  itself  ? 

But  with  a  hearty  vindictiveness  worthy  of  the  days 
of  kings  and  chronicles,  Miss  Knight  prayed  that  Sergius 
Trevelyan  might  be  punished  for  his  crime,  and  that  so 
hard  a  measure,  and  more  also,  might  be  meted  out  to 
him. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A     NEW     CAREER. 

Shortly  before  the  doors  of  the  British  Museum  were 
opened  to  the  students  and  readers,  among  whom  Aylmer 
Read  took  his  place  to  watch  eagerly  for  Miss  Knight's 
appearance,  that  young  lady  was  already  on  her  way  to 
Smithfield  on  foot,  economy  being  now,  more  than  ever, 
a  necessity  with  her. 

All  thought,  save  of  her  sister's  welfare,  she  resolutely 
banished  from  her  mind.  She  was  ready  to  undertake 
any  work,  however  exhausting,  to  earn  money  for 
Phyllis'  needs;  but,  alas!  the  manager  of  the  firm  who 
had  so  long  employed  her  and  other  ladies  on  hand-paint- 
ing could  only  reiterate  his  former  statement  that  "just  at 
present,  at  any  rate,  no  more  work  could  be  given  out." 

"I  don't  mind  doing  it  for  much  less  pay,"  suggested 
Dorothy  timidly,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Very  sorry,  but  we  have  a  great  deal  more  hand- 
painted  stuff  on  our  hands  than  we  know  how  to  dispose 
of.  The  demand  for  it  has  almost  ceased.  Your  designs 
were  the  best  we  had.  You  will  easily  get  other  work  to 
do.     We  will  give  you  any  reference  in  our  power." 

Sick  at  heart,  Dorothy  left  the  warehouse  and  repaired 
to  an  address  furnished  her  of  another  firm.  Here  the 
same  ill  success  awaited  her.  It  was  too  late  in  the  sea- 
son, she  was  told,  to  take  on  new  hands.  If  she  called  in 
the  autumn  something  might  perhaps  be  done.  After  a 
third  venture,  which  brought  her  a  recommendation  to 
"try  painting  in  oils  instead  of  water-colors,"  Dorothy 


90  A  New  Career. 

set  her  pale  face  westward  with  tears  burning  under  her 
eyelids. 

She  had  not  the  least  idea  what  to  do  to  raise  the  neces- 
sary funds,  and  yet  the  money  must  be  found.  A  des- 
pairing rage  against  the  man  who  brought  her  sister  to 
this  helpless  condition  filled  her  heart.  If  she  could  find 
him,  stir  even  his  craven  soul  to  remorse  and  shame,  it 
would  be  something  achieved.  Dorothy  knew  very  little 
about  the  stage,  but  she  was  aware  of  the  existence  and 
the  addresses  of  several  theatrical  agencies,  and  it  oc- 
curred to  her  that  through  the  help  of  these  she  might 
happily  be  able  to  track  down  Mr.  Sergius  Trevelyan. 

Down  Chancery  lane  she  turned  from  Holborn  in  the 
moist,  still  warmths  of  a  mid-summer  noon.  She  was  hot 
and  tired ;  she  had  breakfasted  long  ago  off  dry  toast  and 
tea,  and  had  tramped  many  miles  since  that  time ;  but  her 
youth  and  perfect  health  triumphed  over  fatigue,  and  nine 
men  out  of  every  ten  who  passed  her  turned  again  to  look 
after  the  beautiful  figure  in  worn  blue  serge,  and  the 
lovely,  troubled  face  under  the  cheap,  shady  black  hat. 

The  dramatic  agent's  office  was  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Covent  Garden,  up  a  flight  of  stairs.  Round  about  the 
doors  and  in  the  passage  outside,  a  few  men  and  a  great 
many  young  women  were  assembled,  most  of  them  talk- 
ing and  laughing  with  much  apparent  gayety,  and  indulg- 
ing freely  in  the  slang  of  their  profession,  which  to  Doro- 
thy was  absolutely  unintelligible. 

"I  hadn't  got  a  dress,  my  dear,  so  I  just  faked  one." 
"When  I  sang  that  song  they  positively  got  up  and  eat 
it!"  "Study!  Not  me!  I  never  study  a  part  for  a 
matinee.  I  just  wing  it."  "Stupidest  part  you  ever  read, 
my  boy.  As  it  was  given  to  me  it  hadn't  a  laugh  in  it. 
But  I've  worked  a  few  old  pantomime  wheezes,  and  I  for- 
get a  little  more  of  the  author  every  night,  so  it's  grow- 
ing really  funny.'*'    "Yes,  I  was  afraid  they'd  guy  the 


A  New  Career.  91 

piece  the  first  night,  and  a  fortnight  later,  when  I  passed 
the  doors,  and  saw :  'House  full ;  standing  room  only,'  I 
knew  it  was  on  its  last  legs.  But  I'm  sorry  you're  out  of  a 
shop." 

Most  of  the  young  women  wore  fair  hair,  rather  dark 
at  the  roots,  and  all  of  them  had  dark  eyebrows  and  eye- 
lashes. Perhaps  they  were  not  more  painted  than  are 
fashionable  London  belles  toward  the  end  of  a  season ;  but 
there  was  a  difference.  The  "make-up"  was  cheaper  in 
quality,  and  there  was  less  attempt  to  conceal  it.  All  were 
gayly,  in  some  cases  very  tastefully,  dressed,  and  the 
greater  portion  of  the  faces  showed  unusual  vivacity  and 
intelligence.  Dorothy's  appearance  excited  some  curi- 
osity, for  those  present  had  nothing  to  do  but  gossip  and 
stare  about  them,  with  their  eyes  ever  and  anon  fixed  upon 
the  private  door  of  the  room  where  the  agent  whose  ser- 
vics  they  had  come  to  seek  was  understood  to  be  shut  in 
with  a  manager. 

An  elderly  man,  with  a  yellowish,  greasy-looking  face, 
who  was  seated  in  a  corner  of  the  well-filled  room,  with  an 
air  of  deep  dejection,  presently  rose,  and  with  much  polite- 
ness, gently  insisted  that  Dorothy  should  take  his  chair. 
The  girl  was  very  tired,  and  gratefully  accepted  the  atten- 
tion. From  the  talk  of  those  about  her  she  presently 
learned,  to  her  great  surprise,  that  the  elderly  man  in 
question,  who  had  taken  up  his  position  in  a  farther  corner 
of  the  room,  leaning  gloomily  against  the  wall  with  his 
arms  folded,  was  the  "funniest  actor  in  London,"  who 
had  just  made  a  hit  in  a  preposterous  character  in  bur- 
lesque, and  who  every  night  caused  shrieks  of  laughter  by 
his  whimsical  antics. 

While  she  was  still  gazing  curiously  across  the  room  at 
the  sad-faced  comedian,  the  outer  door  of  the  waiting- 
room  opened  with  a  flourish,  and  a  gentleman  entered,  at 
sight  of  whom  the  clerk  rose  obsequiously,  and  coming 


92  A  New  Career. 

from  behind  his  desk,  began  to  carry  on  a  whispered  con- 
versation with  him. 

From  where  they  stood,  Dorothy,  seated  near  the  door 
leading  to  the  inner  office,  was  immediately  within  their 
line  of  sight;  both  men  looked  at  her  as  they  spoke,  the 
new-comer,  who  was  by  far  the  taller  and  more  distin- 
guished-looking of  the  two,  with  a  fixed  intentness  which 
was  somewhat  decomposing.  She,  on  her  part,  looked 
up  and  back  at  him,  irritated  at  last  by  the  fixity  of  his 
gaze.  Meeting  his  eyes  gave  her  nothing  of  that  sense  of 
friendliness  and  security,  and  even  of  previous  acquaint- 
ance, which  she  had  experienced  after  that  first  exchange 
of  glances  with  Aylmer  Read  in  the  sculpture  galleries  of 
the  British  Museum.  The  stare  of  this  man  to-day  in- 
spired in  her  nothing  but  impatience,  nor  was  there  any- 
thing in  his  face  which  she  found  to  be  sympathetic  or  in- 
teresting. 

Very  few  women  would  have  agreed  with  her  in  thus 
ignoring  this  man's  claims  to  be  considered  interesting. 
Dressed  in  deep  mourning,  of  light,  well-made  figure  and 
singularly  graceful  bearing,  the  gentleman  who  at  first 
sight  was  so  greatly  fascinated  by  Dorothy's  beauty,  was 
himself  exceptionally  handsome,  although  of  somewhat 
effeminate  and  youthful  appearance.  In  complexion  he 
was  strikingly  fair  and  very  pale;  his  face  was  clean 
shaved  and  regular  in  outline,  marred  only  by  a  slight,  a 
very  slight,  heaviness  in  the  red  under-lip.  His  brilliant 
light  eyes,  under  lashes  long  and  curled  as  a  woman's, 
looked  out  with  a  gentle,  appealing  expression  upon  the 
world,  and  his  close-cut  hair,  in  color  of  the  palest — al- 
most silvery — golden,  completed  a  very  agreeable  and  ex- 
ceptional tout  ensemble. 

Presently  the  two  men,  still  in  conversation,  moved 
toward  the  agent's  door,  upon  the  panels  of  which  the 


A  New  Career.  93 

clerk  tapped  with  his  knuckles,  and  in  response  to  a  loud 
"Come  in,"  they  disappeared  within  the  inner  office. 

The  buzz  of  conversation,  interrupted  by  the  latest  ar- 
rival, recommenced  at  once.  Nobody  knew  the  fair  man, 
and  all  were  exceedingly  curious  about  him. 

Was  he  a  "society  actor,"  or  a  "toff  going  to  take  out  a 
company  ?"  He  ought  certainly  to  be  a  manager  from  all 
the  fuss  made  about  him.  Didn't  his  clothes  fit  him  beau- 
tifully, and  wasn't  he  a  darling  altogether? 

"It  is  no  good,  girls,"  put  in  a  jolly-looking,  red-faced, 
elderly  woman  to  a  group  of  girls  who  were  discussing  the 
new-comer  in  the  above  terms.  "The  Johnny  had  no  eyes 
except  for  that  pretty  girl  in  blue  serge  over  there  in  the 
chair  by  the  door." 

As  though  to  prove  the  truth  of  her  observations,  the 
door  of  the  agent's  office  opened  at  that  moment,  and  the 
clerk  came  straight  to  where  Dorothy  was  sitting. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  Mr.  Whitlock?"  he  inquired. 
"And  is  it  about  an  engagement?" 

"It  is  not  about  an  engagement,"  she  answered,  rising. 
"But  I  want  to  see  him  very  much.  I  wouldn't  keep  him 
more  than  a  minute." 

"Well,  he  can  see  you  now,  I  think,  if  you  will  just  give 
me  your  name." 

"My  name  is  Knight ;  but  Mr.  Whitlock  has  never  heard 
of  me." 

When  Dorothy  was  shown  into  the  inner  office  she 
found  the  agent,  a  small,  slight  man,  with  fine  dark  eyes 
and  curt,  offhand  manners,  seated  behind  a  desk  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  the  walls  of  which  were  completely 
covered  by  frame  photographs  of  actresses  in  nearly 
every  possible  dress  and  attitude.  Standing  with  his 
foack  to  her,  studying  these,  was  the  fair-haired  young 
gentleman  whose  appearance  had  caused  so  great  a  flutter 
among  the  ladies  on  the  other  side  of  the  door. 


94  A  New  Career. 

Dorothy  at  first  hesitated  at  sight  of  a  third  person,  but 
at  a  gesture  of  autocratic  encouragement  from  the  little 
agent  she  approached  the  desk.  A  good  deal  to  her  sur- 
prise, Mr.  Whitlock  shook  hands  with  her  across  it. 

"You  don't  seem  to  remember  me,"  he  said.  "But  I 
got  you  your  first  engagement  at  the  Thespian  theatre 
rather  more  than  two  years  ago." 

"That  was  my  sister,  Miss  Phyllis  Knight." 

"Great  Scott!  What  a  likeness!  I  can  see  now, 
though,  you're  much  better  looking.  Well,  Miss  Knight, 
what  can  I  do  for  you?  Things  theatrical  are  in  a  very 
bad  way.     By-the-bye,  how  is  your  sister?" 

"Very,  very  ill.  Dying,  I  am  afraid,"  Dorothy  an- 
answered  in  a  low  voice.  "But  I  haven't  come  to  talk 
about  either  my  sister  or  myself,  Mr.  Whitlock.  I  know 
your  time  is  valuable,  and  that  very  many  people  are 
waiting  to  see  you.  I  have  come  to  ask  if  you  can  give 
me  the  address  of  a  Mr.  Sergius  Trevelyan,  who  was  a 
member  of  the  'Settled  for  Life'  company  until  about  two 
or  three  months  ago." 

Mr.  Whitlock  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  gave  a 
short  laugh. 

"A  good  many  people  have  asked  me  for  Mr.  Sergius 
Trevelyan's  address  lately,"  he  observed.  "I  suppose  he 
borrowed  money  from  your  sister,  as  he  did  from  most 
people?  I'm  sorry  I  can't  help  you.  I've  got  a  West 
End  address  which  the  fellow  put  on  our  books  a  few 
years  ago,  but  where  he  is  now  I  haven't  the  slightest 
idea." 

"I  beg  your  pardon !" 

Dorothy  and  the  agent  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
third  occupant  of  the  room,  who  now  advanced  and 
gravely  bowed  to  Dorothy. 

"The  Honorable  Darcy  Derrick — Miss  Knight,"  put 
in  the  agent. 


A  New  Career.  95 

The  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick  looked  very  earnestly  at  the 
girl  as  he  returned  her  chilling  acknowledgment  of  the 
introduction. 

"Pardon  me  for  breaking  in  upon  a  private  conversa- 
tion," he  said  gently;  "but  I  could  not  help  hearing  the 
name  of  a  certain  scampish  distant  connection  of  mine — 
a  very  distant  connection  by  marriage  only,"  he  added 
quickly,  catching  an  unmistakable  look  of  aversion'  on 
Dorothy's  face.  "I  hope  you  will  believe  that  I  am  in 
no  way  proud  of  knowing  such  a  man.  But  I  think  I 
can  tell  you  what  has  become  of  him." 

"Where  is  he,  then?"  asked  the  agent. 

"First  let  me  tell  you  what  I  know  about  him.  I  have 
been  out  of  England  for  some  years,  as  you  may  have 
heard,  and  only  returned  on  my  father,  Lord  Derrick's, 
death,  not  long  ago.  Before  I  left  Italy  I  received  a  let- 
ter from  this  fellow,  Trevelyan,  whom  I  had  never  heard 
of  before,  claiming  my  help  to  pull  him  out  of  some  hole 
he  had  got  into,  on  the  score  of  being  the  son  of  a  third 
cousin  of  my  mother's,  or  something  of  that  sort.  I  un- 
derstood from  his  letter  that  he  was  an  actor,  and  he 
asked  for  money  to  enable  him  to  go  out  to  America  to 
join  his  wife,  who,  he  said,  was  earning  enough  money 
there  in  some  singing  company  to  keep  him." 

"Ah !"  burst  from  Dorothy's  lips  in  uncontrollable  in- 
dignation. 

"Well,  did  he  go  ?"  asked  Mr.  Whitlock. 

"Presumably.  Anyhow,  his  next  letter,  which  I  re- 
ceived about  two  months  ago,  bore  the  Liverpool  post- 
mark, and  in  it  he  thanked  me  for  enabling  him  to  book 
a  berth  on  an  Allan  line  steamer,  which  sailed  early  the 
following  morning." 

"Then  Mr.  Darcy  has  been  able  to  tell  you  just  what 
you  want  to  know,"  remarked  Mr.  Whitlock  briskly, 
turning  to  Dorothy.    "I'm  afraid  it  is  only  throwing 


96  A  New  Career. 

good  money  after  bad  to  try  and  dun  the  fellow.  I've 
had  several  applications  about  him,  chiefly  from  young 
ladies  to  whom  he  had  promised  marriage." 

The  agent  laughed,  but  Mr.  Derrick  looked  much  dis- 
tressed. 

"A  man  cannot  be  responsible  for  the  faults  of  his 
mother's  fourth  cousin,"  he  said  "Still,  if  I  had  the  least 
idea  of  the  fellow's  antecedents,  I  certainly  wouldn't  have 
helped  him  to  get  out  of  the  country." 

Mr.  Whitlock  meanwhile  was  crossing  the  name  of  the 
defaulting  Sergius  Trevelyan  out  of  his  books. 

"Is  there  nothing  else  I  can  do  for  you,  Miss  Knight?" 
he  asked,  for  he  saw  the  young  lady  turn  toward  the  door. 

"No,  thank  you.     Good  morning." 

Her  hand  was  on  the  door  when  the  Hon.  Darcy  whis- 
pered something  quickly  in  the  agent's  ear.  The  latter's 
face  at  once  dropped  something  of  its  surly,  bored  ex- 
pression. 

"Ah,  don't  go  just  directly,  please,  Miss  Knight;  I 
may  be  able  to  be  of  use  to  you.  Would  you  kindly 
wait  in  the  next  room  a  few  minutes  until  I  can  speak  to 
you?" 

Much  surprised,  Dorothy  bowed  assent  and  left  the 
room.  After  an  interval  of  about  five  minutes,  Mr. 
Whitlock  thrust  his  little  dark  head  out  of  the  door  and 
beckoned  her  into  his  office«again.  This  time  he  was  the 
only  occupant  of  the  room,  the  Hon.  Darcy  having 
passed  out  through  the  other  door. 

"Sit  down,  Miss  Knight,"  Mr.  Whitlock  began,  indi- 
cating a  chair  with  a  wave  of  his  pen,  while  he  re- 
sumed his  former  place  behind  the  desk.  "How  would 
you  like  to  go  on  the  stage?" 

"Not  at  all.  I  have  neither  the  wish  nor  the  aptitude 
for  it." 

"You're  the  first  girl  I  ever  met  who  didn't  think  she 


A  New  Career.  97 

could  act.  Well,  I'll  put  it  another  way.  How  would 
you  like  to  earn  some  money?" 

"Very  much,  indeed!" 

"Eight  or  ten  pounds  a  week,  for  instance?" 

Dorothy  stared  at  him  in  astonishment.  From  her  sis- 
ter's experience  she  knew  quite  well  that  a  guinea  a  week 
was  quite  as  much  as  a  beginner  without  money,  posi- 
tion, or  influence  could  hope  for. 

"Mind,  it's  only  for  a  six  weeks'  summer  tour  in  the 
seaside  towns,"  Mr.  Whitlock  said.  "The  fact  is,  the 
Hon.  Darcy  Derrick,  whom  you  saw  here  just  now,  has 
come  into  some  money  on  the  death  of  his  father,  Baron 
Derrick,  and  by  way  of  investing  it,  he  intends  taking 
round  a  company  in  a  play  he's  written  himself.^ 

Here  Mr.  Whitlock  stopped  to  laugh  at  what  he  evi- 
dently considered  a  humorous  notion. 

"Whether  he  loses  his  money  or  not  is  his  business, 
not  mine,"  he  went  on.  "He  has  asked  me  to  book  the 
tour  and  engage  the  company.  It  will  be  called  'Mr. 
Darcy's  Comedy  Company,'  on  account  of  Lord  Derrick 
being  so  recently  dead.  The  heroine's  a  very  good  part 
— at  least,  so  the  author  tells  me.  I  haven't  read  the 
piece  yet,  but  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to,  sooner  or  later, 
for  my  sins,  and  Mr.  Derrick  had  thought  of  engaging 
Miss  Ella  Carisbrooke ;  have  you  seen  her?  A  great  big, 
handsome,  yellow-haired  girl,  who  made  rather  a  hit  by 
her  looks  in  that  failure  at  the  Embankment  Theatre. 
Anyhow,  when  he  met  you  here  this  morning  he  thought 
your  face  and  figure  would  suit  the  part,  and  besides  that 
he  seems  a  sentimental  young  gentleman,  and  distressed 
to  hear  you  had  a  dying  sister  who  had  been  cheated  out 
of  some  money  by  that  disreputable  connection  of  his 
he'd  helped  out  of  the  country.  So  he's  told  me  to  offer 
you  the  part  of  Zara,  in  'Love's  Right,'  as  he  calls  his  con- 
coction.   As  to  the  terms,  he  leaves  them  to  you,  and  as, 


98  A  New  Career. 

of  course,  you  will  take  me  for  your  agent  in  the  matter, 
on  my  usual  ten  per  cent  commission  up  to  the  amount 
of  the  first  week's  salary,  I  should  fix  them  at  ten  pounds 
a  week." 

"Ten  pounds  a  week,"  Dorothy  repeated  blankly. 
"But,  Mr.  Whitlock,  I  can't  act !" 

"Lots  of  people  make  twice  that  in  London  theatres 
who  can't  act  and  never  will.     If  Mr.  Derrick  is  such  a 

f I  mean,  if  Mr.  Derrick  is  willing  to  pay  you  such 

terms,  and  can  afford  them,  you  take  them,  and  leave  the 
public  to  find  out  whether  you  are  worth  it.  Sixty 
pounds  in  six  weeks  is  something  in  these  hard  times, 
even  deducting  my  commission." 

"But  there  are  dresses  to  be  got "  began  Dorothy, 

when  the  agent  cut  her  short. 

"Oh,  I  should  make  him  meet  you  about  those.  Tell 
him  you  haven't  got  the  money  to  do  justice  to  the  part 
in  the  matter  of  dressing,  and  he'll  shell  out  right 
enough." 

"Shell  out?" 

"Yes,  plank  down  the  oof — oh,  Miss  Knight,  you  have 
much  to  learn  on  the  stage,  but  I  really  haven't  time  to 
teach  you.  Come,  is  it  a  bargain?  The  Hon.  Darcy  is 
coming  back  in  half  an  hour  to  know  if  it  is  all  settled. 
He's  doing  the  thing  in  style.  You  start  rehearsing 
Wednesday  at  Hastings ;  rehearse  ten  days'  open  Satur- 
day. Company  travels  four  o'clock  train  to-morrow  from 
Charing  Cross  Station.  If  you  call  here  ten  o'clock  to- 
morrow morning  I'll  have  your  agreement  drawn  up,  get 
it  stamped,  and,  whether  you  can  act  or  whether  you 
can't,  he'll  have  to  pay  you  sixty  pounds." 

"It  is  impossible,"  cried  Dorothy  in  bewilderment.  "I 
cannot  stay  away  from  home  for  ten  days.  It  would  be 
very  expensive." 

"He'll  pay  half  salaries  for  ten  days'  rehearsals,  and 


A  New  Career.  99 

if  you  agree  I  am  authorized  to  give  you  a  check  for 
whatever  sum  you  may  at  present  require." 

"Ten  pounds!"  gasped  Dorothy. 

Visions  of  doctor's  and  nurse's  fees,  of  port  wine,  soups 
and  tonics  for  her  sister,  flitted  through  her  brain. 

The  agent  forthwith  wrote  a  check. 

"There  you  are !"  he  said,  cheerily ;  "and  there,"  hand- 
ing her  a  roll  of  type-written  sheets'  in  a  brown  paper 
cover,  "there  is  the  part  of  Zara  in  'Love's  Right,'  for  you 
to  study.  Call  here  at  ten  sharp  to  sign  the  contract. 
This  way  out.    Ta,  ta,  Miss  Knight !" 

And  so,  much  against  her  intention  or  desire,  Dorothy 
became  an  actress. 


CHAPTER  X. 

MR.  DARCY'S  COMliDY  COMPANY. 

Hastings,  Brighton,  Eastbourne,  Margate,  Ramsgate, 
Bournemouth,  and  Plymouth. 

The  names  alone,  to  a  girl  who  loved  the  sea,  and  who 
for  more  than  three  years  had  not  feasted  her  eyes  upon 
it,  sounded  refreshing  in  the  extreme.  The  last  week  in 
June,  the  whole  of  July,  and  Bank  Holiday  week  in  Aug- 
ust, were  to  be  taken  up  by  the  tour.  Parting  from  Phyl- 
lis so  soon  after  the  sisters  had  been  reunited  was  very 
hard  to  Dorothy ;  but  Dr.  Morgan  had  promised  to  look 
in  at  Lockhart  Cottages  at  least  once  a  day,  the  trained 
nurse  was  in  every  way  satisfactory,  and  Dorothy  had 
been  very  careful  to  leave  behind  her  fifty  envelopes,  al- 
ready stamped  and  addressed  to  her  at  the  different  thea- 
tres where  she  would  be  acting,  in  order  that  she  might 
hear  daily  from  the  nurse  or  Cresswell  of  her  sister's 
progress. 

Hour  after  hour  Phyllis  lay  perfectly  still,  listening  to 
the  nurse's  pleasant  voice  as  she  read  aloud  novel  after 
novel  from  a  neighboring  library  to  which  Dorothy  had 
paid  a  subscription.  Extreme  weakness,  utter  collapse  of 
the  nerves,  and  an  anaemic  condition  of  the  heart  and 
brain,  such  were  the  terms  in  which  Dr.  Morgan  spoke 
of  her  case;  perfect  rest  from  all  trouble,  worry,  and 
excitement,  careful  nursing  and  nourishing  food,  were  the 
chief  things  needed.  She  hardly  seemed  to  understand 
when  Dorothy,  trying  to  laugh  through  her  tears,  waved 
a  banknote  before  her  eyes,  and  whispered  that  she  was 


Mr.  Darcy's  Comedy  Company.         101 

going  away  "just  for  a  day  or  two,  to  earn  plenty  more 
money  very  easily." 

"So  have  just  what  you  like,  my  darling.  I  have 
brought  you  some  strawberries  and  a  great  bunch  of 
roses  and  white  lilies.  We  are  quite  rich  now,  and  what- 
ever you  want  you  shall  have." 

As  Phyllis's  eyes  turned  to  the  flowers  the  shadows  on 
her  face  deepened. 

"Lilies  are  not  for  me,"  she  murmured,  and  then  re- 
lapsed into  silence,  staring  at  the  flowers,  and  apparently 
oblivious  of  Dorothy's  presence. 

But  when,  on  the  day  following,  the  moment  of  part- 
ing came,  and  Dorothy,  beautiful  in  new  clothes,  bent 
over  her  to  kiss  her  good-by,  Phyllis  threw  her  thin  arms 
around  her  sister's  neck  in  sudden  excitement. 

"You  are  going  to  find  him,  are  you  not?"  she  whis- 
pered eagerly.  "To  put  things  right  and  prove  that  I 
am  married.     Oh,  Dolly,  prove  that,  prove  that !" 

It  was  a  cry  of  anguish  which  rang  out  in  the  last 
words.  Tears  rushed  from  Dorothy's  eyes.  How  could 
she  tell  her  of  Sergius's  flight  to  America,  and,  above  all, 
of  his  statement  that  he  was  "going  back  to  his  wife" 
there  ? 

Embracing  Phyllis  fondly,  she  laid  her  head  back  upon 
the  pillows. 

"I  will  do  all  I  can,  you  know,  darling,"  she  said.  "I 
am  only  going  away  because  of  you,  because  I  want  you 
to  have  everything  you  require.  You  will  forgive  me  for 
leaving  you,  will  you  not  ?" 

Phyllis's  soft  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  with  a  look  of 
appeal  in  them,  which  it  cut  Dorothy  to  the  heart  to  see. 
All  her  love  was  lavished  on  her  sister,  and  Dorothy's 
was  a  nature  strong  both  to  love  and  to  hate.  In  those 
crucial  years  of  a  woman's  life,  from  seventeen  to  twenty, 
when  distant  thoughts  of  love-making  and  romance  creep 


102        Mr.  Darcy's  Comedy  Company. 

into  a  young  maid's  day-dreams,  making  her  soft  and 
self-conscious,  Dorothy's  mind  had  been  perforce  ab- 
sorbed by  the  problem  of  how  to  live,  how  to  make 
enough  money  to  feed,  clothe,  and  keep  a  roof  over  the 
little  household  in  Lockhart  Cottages.  That  was  clearly 
her  first  duty,  and  left  her  no  leisure  for  dreaming.  But 
on  Phyllis,  whose  nature  was  weaker,  and  who  had  always 
been  a  little  spoiled,  the  burden  of  responsibility  had  never 
been  allowed  to  fall,  and  even  now,  as  she  lay  exhausted 
upon  her  pillows,  with  clouded  brain  and  sad  eyes  fixed 
upon  her  sister,  the  comforting  thought  crept  into  her 
soul  that  Dorothy  would  make  it  all  right,  just  as  Dor- 
othy had  miraculouly  produced  bank-notes  when  money 
was  most  needed. 

Dorothy  would  prove  her  marriage,  would  even  turn 
Sergius  from  the  error  of  his  ways,  and  force  him  to  jus- 
tify Phyllis's  first  belief  in  him,  and  with  this  hope  at  her 
heart  the  invalid's  eyes  closed  in  sleep. 

On  that  same  memorable  day  when  Dorothy  started 
on  her  stage  career,  she  was  destined  to  behold  again  the 
only  man  who  had  ever  so  far  inspired  in  her  any  strong 
feelings  of  interest.  Even  to  herself  she  would  hardly 
own  her  disappointment,  when,  as  she  drove  in  the  un- 
wonted glory  of  a  cab  toward  Charing  Cross  Station,  she 
caught  sight  of  the  tall,  broad-shouldered  figure  of  Ayl- 
mer  Read  entering  the  post  office  by  Trafalgar  Square, 
and  could  not,  by  the  intentness  of  her  gaze  in  his  direc- 
tion, make  him  turn  and  see  her.  In  all  probability  the 
entire  course  of  her  future  life  and  of  Aylmer's  also  would 
have  been  altered  could  she  have  succeeded  in  attracting 
his  attention.  Had  she  only  known  it,  he  was  buying  a 
post  office  order  to  send  to  that  same  provincial  photo- 
grapher who  had  offered  to  supply  him  with  other  por- 
traits of  "Mrs.  Sergius  Trevelyan,  nee  Miss  Phyllis 
Knight."    Even  if  he  was  not  fated  to  meet  her  again  at 


Mr.  Darcy's  Comedy  Company.         103 

the  Museum,  even  if  she  was  the  wife  of  another  man, 
that  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  feast  his  eyes  upon 
the  features  of  his  ideal,  however  uncomplimentary  the 
camera  had  been  in  reproducing  her  charms.  Hence  his 
visit  to  the  post  office,  with  a  view  to  buying  pictures  of 
Dorothy's  sister,  while  Dorothy  herself  was  passing  in  a 
cab  within  a  few  yards  of  him. 

He  had  only  to  turn  his  head  to  see  her,  looking  pret- 
tier than  he  had  ever  seen  her  look  yet,  in  a  ready-made 
gown  of  tweed,  bought  in  High  Street,  Kensington,  on 
the  previous  day  for  the  modest  sum  of  two  guineas  and  a 
half,  and  easily  fitted  to  her  supple  figure.  More  than 
that,  she,  being  a  creature  of  moods,  had  by  this  time  ex- 
perienced a  revulsion  of  feeling  in  his  favor,  and  after  ve- 
hemently hating  all  men  for  her  sister's  sake  during  the 
course  of  about  sixty  hours,  had  suddenly  veered  round 
and  decided  that  some  men  were  possibly  not  quite  so  bad 
as  others,  and  that  among  the  "not-so-bads"  Aylmer 
Read  might  be  counted. 

The  Hastings  train  started  at  four  o'clock.  It  wanted 
yet  five-and-twenty  minutes  to  that  time,  as  Dorothy  saw 
by  the  post  office  clock.  A  strong  impulse,  the  na- 
ture of  which  she  did  not  in  the  least  understand,  tempted 
her  to  stop  her  cab,  spring  out,  and,  following  Mr.  Read 
into  the  post  office,  hold  out  her  hand  to  him  and  hear 
him  say  "God-speed"  to  her  journey. 

She  hesitated,  grew  hot  and  cold,  red  and  white, 
thought  of  his  steadfast  brown  eyes  alight  with  love, 
thought  of  his  honest  directness,  his  chivalrous  courtesy, 
remembered  the  warm,  close  pressure  of  his  hand  at  part- 
ing, and  the  tone  of  his  voice  as  he  said : 

"Only  a  woman  can  make  a  man  happy;  only  a  man 
can  make  a  woman  happy." 

Then,  back  upon  her  mind  rushed  the  memory  of  her 
sister's  cruel  story ;  of  love  and  trust  betrayed,  of  health, 


104        Mr.  Darcy's  Comedy  Company. 

hope,  honor,  all  destroyed  "for  one  man's  pleasure ;"  and 
Dorothy,  being  essentially  feminine  and  unreasonable, 
froze  her  heart  against  Aylmer  Read,  because  Sergius 
Trevelyan  had  been  found  wanting. 

"Men's  love  is  worth  nothing  at  all,"  she  whispered  to 
herself,  angry  at  sight  of  her  own  blushes  reflected  in  the 
looking-glass  slips  of  the  hansom.  "Women  are  right 
who  just  marry  for  money  or  position,  if  they  must  marry 
at  all.  What  men  call  love  merely  depends  upon  our 
good  looks,  and  when  those  fade,  is  easily  transferred  to 
some  younger  and  prettier  woman.  I  am  glad  that  there 
exist  women,  cruel,  grasping,  and  clever,  who  can  make 
men  suffer.  I  cannot  do  that,  but  at  least  they  shall  never 
break  my  heart  as  they  have  broken  my  poor  darling's. 
It  was  contemptible  of  me  even  to  think  for  a  moment  of 
saying  good-by  to  Mr.  Read,  who  would  only  have 
amused  his  colleagues  at  his  office  by  telling  them  of  the 
conquest  he  had  made.  But  no  man  shall  talk  like  that 
of  me!" 

So  Dorothy,  aghast  at  her  sister's  fate,  argued  down 
the  promptings  of  her  heart,  and  tried  to  persuade  herself 
that  her  stalwart  admirer  was  a  gay  Lothario,  intent  on 
subjugating  the  fair  sex,  and  boasting  of  his  triumphs. 
The  opportunity  of  speaking  to  him  passed,  and  her  cab 
turned  into  the  station. 

Here  the  chief  members  of  Mr.  Darcy's  "Love's  Right" 
Company  were  assembled,  and  directed  curious  glances 
toward  Mr.  Darcy's  leading  lady  as  she  stepped  upon  the 
platform.  Among  them  Dorothy  was  glad  to  recognize 
the  short,  stout,  yellow-faced  man,  reported  inimitably 
funny,  who  had  given  her  his  chair  at  the  agent's  office, 
who  had  been  engaged  at  a  high  salary  for  this  six  weeks' 
seaside  tour  between  two  London  engagements.  Mr. 
Marmaduke  Strutt,  as  he  elected  to  call  himself,  or  "Old 
Marmalade,"  as  he  was  affectionately  termed  by  irrever- 


Mr.  Darcy's  Comedy  Company.         105 

ent  friends,  was  of  dyspeptic  habit,  and  invariably  plunged 
in  gloom.  He  scarcely  ever  in  private  life  ventured  on  an 
original  remark ;  but  on  the  stage,  by  some  strange  freak 
of  Nature,  his  every  word  was  productive  of  uproarious 
merriment,  and  the  dullest  of  audiences  were  cheered  by 
his  performances.  Apart  from  his  stage  successes,  he 
was  a  kindly  dispositioned  man,  to  whom  the  letter  "h" 
had  always  offered  insuperable  difficulties ;  a  great  stick- 
ler for  the  proprieties,  and  admirer  of  what  he  considered 
"gentlemanly"  and  "ladylike"  conduct,  and  an  excellent 
judge  of  whisky. 

The  "leading  juvenile,"  as  the  gentleman  who  plays 
young  lovers  is  termed  in  stage  parlance,  was  a  very  tall 
young  man,  known  as  Ernest  Devine,  with  plenty  of  "go" 
and  a  defective  delivery,  who  for  ten  years  had  delighted 
audiences  "over  the  water"  by  vigorous  representations 
of  such  easy  and  straightforward  parts  as  Hamlet,  Robert 
Macaire,  Charles  Surface,  Romeo,  and  Coupeau  in 
"Drink."  With  him  was  his  wife,  a  small,  worn-looking, 
overdressed  woman,  with  keen  dark  eyes  who  was  ever 
ready  and  willing  to  play  anything,  from  Cleopatra  to 
Little  Buttercup,  at  twenty-four  hours'  notice. 

The  aristocratic  portion  of  the  troupe  was  represented 
by  another  married  couple,  Mr  and  Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe 
(spelled  with  a  diphthong).  To  these  latter  Dorothy  was 
at  once  specially  introduced,  and  it  was  implied  by  the 
Hon.  Darcy  that  their  companionship  would  be  very  val- 
uable to  her.  Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe  was  a  handsome 
woman  of  forty,  with  kindly  eyes  and  a  hard  voice.  She 
could  never  forget  Mr.  Stourton-Chepe's  titled  relations, 
or  the  dreadful  necessity  which  compelled  her  and  her 
husband  to  tour  about  the  country  "like  vagrants,"  as  she 
pathetically  expressed  it.  Her  husband  was  a  whimsical, 
little,  dried-up-looking  gentleman  of  vast  unsatisfied  am- 
bition.    He  and  his  wife  wrangled  in  public  and  private 


106         Mr.  Darcy's  Comedy  Company. 

as  much  as  it  was  possible  for  well-educated  people  to  do, 
and  it  was  the  general  opinion  that  they  only  accepted 
joint  engagements  in  order  that  neither  of  them  might  be 
separated  from  their  dog,  an  ugly  and  surly  fox-terrier 
with  very  bad  manners. 

A  pretty  and  lady-like  girl  named  Graham,  and  her 
mother,  a  fussy  old  lady,  who  was  plainly  intent  on 
match-making  where  the  handsome  young  manager  was 
concerned ;  and  Jack  Wyverley,  an  old  friend  ot  the  Hon. 
Darcy's,  who  had  earned  a  great  reputation  as  an  ama- 
teur actor,  and  who  always  looked  as  though  he  were  get- 
ting over  a  drinking  bout,  completed  the  company,  with 
the  addition  of  the  baggageman,  and  the  acting-manager, 
this  last  being  another  friend  of  Mr.  Darcy's,  tall,  well- 
bred  and  impassive,  adorned  with  an  eyeglass  and  a 
squint,  and  known  as  "Bobby  Coles." 

The  Hon.  Darcy,  Mr.  Coles,  Mr.  Wyverley,  and  Mr. 
Stourton-Chepe,  between  them  imparted  an  extremely 
smart  appearance  to  the  party,  and  did  such  justice  to 
their  tailors  that  little  Mrs.  Devine,  unaccustomed  to  such 
sartorial  splendor,  commented  upon  it  to  her  husband. 

"My  word,  Ernest,  aren't  we  taking  a  lot  of  toffs  about 
the  country?  All  of  'em  look  like  princes  of  the  blood, 
don't  they?  You  and  old  Marmalade  are  the  only  ones, 
who  give  away  the  show." 

Mr.  Devine  looked  mournful. 

"A  d lot  of  amateurs,"  he  muttered.     "Look  at  the 

leading  lady,  Miss  Dorothy  Knight!  Who  ever  heard 
of  her,  I  should  like  to  know?  Of  course,  she's  some 
fashionable  novice  playing  at  acting  for  the  fun  of  it. 
She'll  queer  my  best  scenes,  and  she's  so  good  looking 
that  our  masher  manager's  sure  to  take  her  part.  Ugh ! 
The  drama's  going  to  the  dogs.  Talent  never  has  a 
chance  now." 

"Remember,  Erny,  dear,"  whispered  his  prudent  help- 


Mr.  Darcy's  Comedy  Company.         107 

meet,  "that  we've  been  out  of  a  shop  three  months,  and 
the  screw  is  tip-top.  Only  I  do  wish  Mr.  Darcy  could 
have  written  in  a  part  for  Dick." 

Dick  was  the  eldest  hope  of  the  Devines,  a  stolid  lad  of 
eleven,  who  from  the  age  of  two  had  been  called  upon  to 
represent  comic  or  tragic  infants  of  either  sex  indiscrimi- 
nately, and  Mrs.  Devine  felt  distinctly  aggrieved  that  her 
present  manager  had  not  seen  his  way  to  introduce  a 
child's  part  in  order  to  show  off  her  son's  accomplish- 
ments. 

The  ladies  traveled  together,  and  Dorothy  was  not  slow 
in  discovering  that  a  slight  but  definite  feeling  of  hostility 
existed  against  her  in  that  she  was  a  "novice,"  that  worst 
of  crimes  in  the  eyes  of  an  old  "professional,"  and  yet  in- 
trusted with  the  leading  part.  Mrs.  Devine  felt  that  she 
ought  to  have  played  Zara.  Miss  Graham  inclined  to  the 
belief  that  she  could  both  have  looked  and  acted  it,  while 
her  mother  was  boiling  with  indignation  at  the  thought 
that  a  "wretched  amateur"  had  been  put  over  the  head  of 
her  Mabel,  who  had  been  playing  "juvenile"  parts  for  six 
hardworking  years.  Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe  knew  herself 
to  be  out  of  the  running  where  young  parts  were  con- 
cerned, but  she  was  the  only  woman  in  the  company  ac- 
quainted with  the  Hon.  Darcy's  reputation  in  society 
where  women  were  concerned,  and  although  she  dearly 
loved  a  lord,  and  greatly  wished  to  ingratiate  herself  with 
Baron  Derrick's  second  son,  Dorothy's  remarkable  beau- 
ty inclined  Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe  to  look  upon  her  with 
suspicion.  No  young  and  unattended  woman  had  a  right 
to  be  so  handsome.  Then,  too,  Dorothy  was  not  related 
to  the  Houghton-Knights  of  Cheshire,  which  was  a  dis- 
tinct disadvantage ;  worse  than  that,  she  did  not  seem  to 
want  to  be,  but  plainly  stated  that  she  had  "no  distin- 
guished relatives."  For  a\[  these  things  Mrs.  Stourton- 
Chepe  regarded  Dorothy  with  little  favor,  while  she  de^ 


108        Mr.  Darcy's  Comedy  Company. 

voutly  hoped  the  girl  would  not  "take  it  into  her  head  to 
flirt  with  dear  Stourton.  He  is  so  impressionable  where 
a  pretty  face  is  concerned." 

As  to  whether  the  women  liked  her  or  not  or  thought 
about  her  at  all,  Dorothy  cared  not  one  straw.  She  was 
there  among  them  simply  and  solely  in  order  to  earn  sixty 
pounds  to  defray  the  expenses  of  her  sister's  illness ;  she 
meant  to  try  her  utmost  to  earn  the  money  honestly,  but 
as  she  felt  strongly  convinced  that  under  no  circum- 
stances would  she  ever  be  able  to  act,  she  knew  that  this 
was  probably  the  one  and  only  occasion  in  which  she 
would  be  connected  with  the  stage.  This  experience 
came  to  her  as  something  quite  outside  her  life,  and  she 
was  so  fully  occupied  in  planning  how  best  the  money 
could  be  laid  out  for  Phyllis'  advantage,  that  she  became 
lost  in  a  reverie  and  entirely  forgot  her  immediate  sur- 
roundings. 

Hastings  on  a  summer  evening  was  warm  with  a  moist 
heat,  which  had  lain  all  day  in  a  blue-grey  mist  over  sea 
and  land.  The  Stourton-Chepes  gave  Dorothy  some  ad- 
dresses in  a  fashionable  street  near  their  own,  but  the 
girl  was  so  eager  to  save  all  she  could  from  her  personal 
expenses  that  she  walked  about  for  over  an  hour  until  she 
found  for  herself  two  rooms  in  a  mean  little  red-brick 
terrace  at  ten  shillings  a  weekt  with  a  woman  who  did 
not  "object  to  taking  in  theatricals." 

The  question  of  lodgings  being  settled  and  an  economi- 
cal meal  of  tea  and  bread  and  butter  disposed  of,  at  nine 
o'clock  the  balminess  of  the  evening  tempted  Dorothy  out 
toward  the  sea.  She  did  not  wish  to  meet  either  mem- 
bers of  the  company  or  visitors  to  the  town.  On  the  pier 
and  on  the  parade  bevies  of  young  women,  chattering 
and  giggling,  promenaded  together,  and  endeavored  by 
shrill  hilarity  and  many  backward  glances  to  attract  the 
wandering  attention  of  youths  in  flannel  suits  and  sand- 


Mr.  Darcy's  Comedy  Company.         109 

shoes,  who  likewise  strolled  in  twos  and  threes,  smoking 
cheap  tobacco.  Miss  Graham  and  her  mother  were  tak- 
ing a  constitutional  and  looking  out  for  the  Hon.  Darcy 
and  his  two  friends.  Mr.  Stourton-Chepe,  who,  to  the 
disgust  of  his  wife,  had  struck  up  a  friendship  with  Mar- 
maduke  Strutt,  walked  up  and  down,  discussing  the 
drama  with  the  melancholy-minded  comedian,  and  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Devine  were  also  on  the  parade,  with  their  boy 
Dick,  who  had  been  brought  down  in  the  hope  that  a 
page-boy  might  be  wanted  for  announcements,  or  the 
comedy  scenes  lightened  by  juvenile  acrobatic  perform- 
ances and  imitations  of  popular  actors. 

But  Mr.  Darcy's  leading  lady  was  not  among  the  gaily- 
dressed,  moving,  chattering  throng,  and  her  absence 
troubled  her  manager.  The  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick  was  not 
so  young  or  so  inexperienced  as  he  looked,  and  he  saw 
clearly  that  Miss  Knight  was  not  likely  to  find  congenial 
companionship  among  the  members  of  the  company. 
He  said  as  much  to  his  two  friends,  Bobby  Coles  and  Jack 
Wyverley,  as  the  three  enjoyed  an  excellent  dinner  in  the 
best  hotel  on  the  Hastings  sea  front  that  evening. 

"By  Jove !  What  a  queen  Miss  Knight  looked  among 
those  people  on  the  platform  to-day !"  he  observed,  after 
a  short  silence,  during  dessert. 

The  other  men  laughed  and  exchanged  glances. 

"Gone  again,  eh,  Darcy?" 

"I  hate  that  flippant  way  of  talking  of  a  woman,"  ex- 
claimed the  Hon.  Darcy  angrily.  "I  never  think  about 
that  girl  without  wanting  to  take  my  hat  off." 

"She  is  better  looking  than  Ella  Carisbrooke,"  said  Mr. 
Coles  reflectively.  "Better  style  and  all  that,  of  course, 
and  doesn't  dye  her  hair.  But  Ella  looks  ripping  from 
the  stalls,  and — and  I  don't  myself  care  for  your  particu- 
lar, ladylike  sort  of  women  on  the  stage.  I  like  chic  and 
go,  and  I  think  the  public  does,  too." 


no        Mr.  Darcy's  Comedy  Company. 

"Don't  talk  about  Miss  Knight  in  the  same  breath  with 
Ella  Carisbrooke !"  cried  Darcy,  his  Irish  accent  coming 
out  strongly  as  he  became  excited.     "It's  sacrilege." 

"I  agree  with  Bobby,"  put  in  Jack  Wyverley,  a  short, 
thick-set,  old-young  man,  with  a  clean-shaved,  red  face, 
dazzling  teeth,  and  bloodshot  blue  eyes. 

One  of  Jack  Wyverley's  characteristics  was  that  after 
he  had  imbibed  a  certain  quantity  of  wine  or  spirits  he 
was  invariably  seized  with  an  excess  of  truthfulness. 

"You're  just  as  bad  as  you  were  before  you  went 
abroad,  Darcy,"  he  declared  as  he  sipped  his  coffee  and 
liquer.  "Five  years  ago  you  were  raving  about  Mrs. 
Lacy,  and  nobody  might  say  before  you  she  was  anything 
short  of  a  cherubim.  When  her  divorce  case  came  on 
last  year  the  judge  and  jury  weren't  quite  of  your  opinion. 
Your  periodical  passions  are  so  sultry  while  they  last  that 
I  consider  it's  a  great  pity  you  didn't  engage  Ella  Caris- 
brooke instead  of  Miss  Knight  to  play  in  this  piece  of 
yours." 

"And  why,  pray?" 

"Carisbrooke  is  married  to  old  Jackson,  the  stage  man- 
ager at  the  Embankment  Theatre.  You'd  have  buzzed 
round  her  without  singeing  your  wings  overmuch;  her 
language  would  have  soon  choked  you  off,  and  after  a  few 
little  bills  for  champagne  and  diamonds,  you'd  have  come 
out  of  it  all  right.  But  this  Miss  Knight  appears  to  be  a 
very  disdainful  sort  of  young  lady,  and  nothing  less  than 
St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  would  be  likely  to  satisfy 
her." 

"And  why  not,  pray?"  the  Hon.  Darcy  asked  again, 
turning  his  lustrous  eyes  upon  his  friend  unflinchingly. 

Jack  Wyverley  stared,  showed  his  handsome  teeth  in  a 
wide  grin,  and  finished  off  his  liqueur. 

"I  can  only  say  that  the  future  Mrs.  Derrick,  whoever 


Mr.  Darcy's  Comedy  Company.         in 

she  may  be,  will  have  my  sincerest  sympathy,"  he  ob- 
served enigmatically. 

<4It  wouldn't  be  needed,"  protested  Darcy.  "No  man 
with  a  heart  in  his  body  can  live  without  falling  in  love, 
and  if  he  has  much  heart,  he  falls  in  love  often.  But  once 
he  meets  a  woman  who  is  beautiful,  refined,  intellectual, 
virtuous,  and  devoted  to  him,  he  always  falls  in  love  with 
the  same  woman,  and  she  is  his  wife." 

"Here  endeth  the  first  lesson !"  Mr.  Coles  intoned  with 
a  yawn. 

"It  won't  be  Darcy's  first,  or  his  twenty-first  either," 
Wyverley  asserted. 

"The  man  who  cannot  love  a  beautiful  woman  isn't 
worth  knowing,"  retorted  Darcy.  "Miss  Knight's  figure 
alone  would  make  a  woman  with  a  plain  face  beautiful. 
Every  curve  is  perfection." 

"Not  enough  flesh  for  me,"  Mr.  Coles  observed  criti- 
cally, as  he  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Your  tastes  are  coarse  and  earthy,  Bobby.  There  is 
something  poetic  and  ethereal  about  Dorothy  Knight. 
But  I'm  aware  that  you  cannot  realize  female  loveliness 
which  weighs  anything  under  twelve  stone.  The  mo- 
ment my  eyes  fell  upon  that  charming  girl's  face  at  Whit- 
lock's  office,  I  said  to  myself :  'There  sits  the  heroine  for 
my  play,  Zara  Carewe.'  " 

"Let's  hope  she'll  be  able  to  act,"  Jack  Wyverley  sug- 
gested. "It's  an  awfully  risky  thing  trusting  a  leading 
part  to  a  beginner." 

"What  does  it  matter  to  me  ?"  inquired  the  Hon.  Darcy 
as  he  rolled  himself  a  cigarette.  "I  was  bound  to  give 
my  play  to  the  world  to  show  how  dramas  should  be 
written,  and  I  was  also  bound  to  give  myself  the  oppor- 
tunity of  seeing  that  adorable  girl  daily.  Let's  draw  our 
chairs  to  the  window  and  watch  the  passers-by." 

"On  the  lookout  for  the  fajr  Dorothy,  eh?"  laughed 


H2        Mr.  Darcy's  Comedy  Company. 

Coles,  as  the  three  men  leaned  out,  smoking,  from  the 
private  room  on  the  first  floor  of  the  palatial  red-brick  ho- 
tel, where  they  had  dined. 

The  strains  of  a  band  as  it  played  the  "Cavalleria  In- 
termezzo," then  in  its  first  emotional  freshness,  fell  har- 
moniously upon  their  ears;  they  had  all  dined  well,  and 
the  more  or  less  direct  admiring  glances  thrown  by  pass- 
ing shop-girls  at  the  three  smart-looking  young  men  in 
evening  dress,  and  in  particular  at  the  boyishly  beautiful 
face  of  Darcy,  completed  their  sense  of  bodily  satisfac- 
tion. Through  the  crowds  below  them  at  that  moment  a 
woman  was  passing,  at  whom  all  the  men  and  a  few  wo- 
men here  and  there  turned  to  gaze  with  interest.  In 
movement  she  was  exceptionally  graceful,  and  in  face  and 
figure  too  beautiful  to  walk  about  alone  in  an  English 
town,  it  being  characteristic  of  a  section  of  the  male  popu- 
lation in  England  that  they  cannot  distinguish  between 
those  ladies  who  desire  their  attentions  and  those  others 
who  do  not. 

More  than  one  specimen  of  'Any  in  a  blazer  had  al- 
ready turned  in  his  course  to  follow  Miss  Knight  in  her 
rapid  walk  toward  the  quieter  portion  of  the  sea  front. 
In  her  shabby  old  serge  gown  and  dowdy  hat  and  veil, 
her  good  looks  had  been  far  less  conspicuous ;  but  now 
the  Hon.  Darcy,  who  from  his  place  at  table  had  been  at- 
tentively scanning  the  crowd  for  the  past  hour  and  a  half 
in  search  of  her,  instantly  recognized  her  from  a  distance, 
and,  springing  from  his  seat,  seized  his  hat  and  light  over- 
coat, and,  nodding  a  good-by  to  his  friends,  darted  down 
the  stairs  and  out  at  the  hotel  door  on  his  leading  lady's 
track. 

Wyverly  and  Coles  looked  at  each  other  and  burst  out 
laughing. 

"He's  dotty!"  remarked  the  latter,  knocking  the  ash 
off  his  cigarette  on  the  window  ledge. 


Mr.  Darcy's  Comedy  Company.         113 

"Crazy  Derrick,  he  used  to  be  called  when  we  were  at 
Eton  together,"  returned  Wyverley.  "Before  he  was  six- 
teen he  had  offered  marriage  to  a  barmaid  in  Windsor, 
and  I  haven't  the  least  doubt  that  he  made  love  from  his 
cradle  to  his  nurse.  The  joke  of  it  is  that  he's  always  in 
deadly  earnest,  and  so  sentimental  over  it." 

"He  gets  to  be  rather  a  bore  under  the  circumstances," 
yawned  Bobby  Coles.  "He  believes  in  himself  so  pro- 
foundly, you  see,  and  won't  be  laughed  at  while  it  lasts. 
Let's  have  a  turn  on  the  parade  and  give  the  girls  a 
treat." 

"A  brandy  and  soda  first  to  drink  success  to  Darcy's 
latest  love  affair,"  suggested  Wyverley,  to  which  his 
friend  readily  assented,  and  the  two  men,  exchanging 
highly  amusing  anecdotes  concerning  their  former  boon 
companion  and  present  manager,  passed  presently  down 
to  mingle  with  the  crowd. 

Dorothy  meanwhile  pursued  her  way  toward  St.  Leon- 
ards, very  little  troubled  by  the  attention  she  excited 
among  the  seaside  Lotharios.  A  soft  breeze  blew  from 
the  sea,  and  the  evening  air  seemed  full  of  lovemaking  and 
laughter.  After  three  years  of  dull  overwork  and  Lon- 
don streets  the  change  was  delightful;  but  Dorothy 
turned  hot  with  self-reproach  as  she  felt  her  heart  grow 
lighter. 

"How  can  I  be  so  unfeeling  when  my  poor  darling  is 
lying  between  life  and  death  at  home?"  she  asked  her- 
self, and  the  elasticity  went  out  of  her  walk,  the  bright- 
ness from  her  eyes,  at  the  thought. 

Nearing  St.  Leonards,  she  met  fewer  pedestrians  at 
each  step  until,  by  the  time  the  parade  was  passed,  the 
archway,  and  the  unfinished  works  of  a  new  pier,  night 
was  falling,  and  she  found  herself  at  the  uttermost  end 
of  the  sea  front,  alone.  Here  on  a  solitary  bench  she  sat. 
with  hands  clasped  on  her  knee,  watching  the  rising  moon 


U4        Mr.  Darcy's  Comedy  Company. 

as  it  tipped  with  silver  the  curled  edges  of  the  waves 
breaking  on  the  beach. 

"Oh,  ye  who  have  your  eyeballs  vexed  and  tired, 
Feast  them  upon  the  wideness  of  the  sea." 

The  words,  uttered  close  behind  her,  and  echoing 
strangely  her  own  thoughts,  made  her  start  violently  and 
turn  to  find  Mr.  Derrick  a  little  way  behind  the  bench 
upon  which  she  was  sitting.  As  she  recognized  him  he 
threw  away  a  cigarette  he  was  smoking  and  came  up  to 
her. 

"Forgive  me  for  breaking  in  on  your  reverie,"  he  said 
gently,  "but  I  saw  you  from  my  hotel  window  pass  down 
in  this  direction,  and  as  you  seemed  to  be  a  good  deal  an- 
noyed by  the  impertinence  of  seaside  loafers,  I  ventured 
to  follow  at  a  humble  distance  as  a  self-constituted  watch- 
dog for  the  time  being." 

She  bent  her  head  and  answered  with  more  than  a 
touch  of  sarcasm  in  her  tones : 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Derrick.  But  I  am 
not  accustomed  to  an  escort/' 

"I  hope  you  are  not  vexed  with  me?"  he  said  anxiously. 

"Not  at  all.  I  must  be  getting  back  to  my  rooms 
now,"  she  said,  beginning  to  rise  from  her  seat.  He  de- 
tained her  by  an  appealing  gesture  with  his  hand. 

"I  shall  think  you  are  very  angry  with  me  if  you  let  me 
drive  you  away  like  that,"  he  said.  "I  meant  to  guard 
you  in  silence,  but  Keats'  lines  seemed  so  appropriate 
that  they  slipped  out  in  spite  of  me.  Sit  here  just  for  a 
few  moments ;  I  particularly  want  to  speak  to  you  about 
the  part  of  Zara  before  you  first  read  it  at  rehearsal  to- 
morrow." 

Somewhat  unwillingly  Dorothy  resumed  her  seat-  The 
Hon.  Darcy's  fine  eyes  were  fixed  worshipfully  upon  her 
profile  as  he,  too,  sat  on  the  bench  by  the  sea  wall,  and 


Mr.  Darcy's  Comedy  Company.         115 

racked  his  brains  as  to  how  to  detain  her.  The  moon- 
light lent  to  her  delicate  features  and  firmly  closed  mouth 
an  almost  icy  purity.  It  was  certain,  he  told  himself  with 
a  throb  of  delight,  that  this  girl  had  never  in  her  life  cared 
for  any  man,  and  her  answer  when  he  suddenly  asked  her 
how  she  liked  her  new  part  confirmed  him  in  this  belief. 

"I  really  don't  know  how  to  play  it,  Mr.  Derrick.  I 
don't  understand  such  a  woman.  For  instance,  the  way 
in  which  she  speaks  when  she  first  meets  the  hero  seems 
so  very  strange  to  me.  How  could  she  feel  all  that  for  a 
man  she'd  never  seen  before  ?" 

"Can  you  not  understand?"  he  asked  in  a  very  low 
voice,  which  vibrated  with  tremulous  passion,  "what  it  is 
to  fall  in  love  at  first  sight  ?" 

"No,"  she  answered  frankly.  Then  she  thought  of 
Aylmer  Read  and  blushed. 

"I  have  read  of  such  things,  of  course,"  she  added  hur- 
riedly, "and  I  can  understand  them,  I  suppose,  in  a  man, 
but  not  in  a  woman." 

"You  cannot  understand  a  woman  loving?"  he  asked 
in  a  voice  still  lower  than  before. 

She  turned  her  head  and  gazed  at  him,  saw  his  eyes 
dilated  and  shining  in  the  moonlight,  and  forthwith  was 
seized  with  a  sudden  and  altogether  unaccountable  dislike 
which  for  the  moment  amounted  almost  to  hatred  against 
him. 

It  was  as  though  an  invisible  hand  had  helped  her  to 
rise,  tall  and  stately,  from  her  seat,  and  a  voice  which  was 
not  her  own,  but  strangely  hard  and  sharp,  spoke  for  her. 

"No,  Mr.  Darcy,  I  cannot  understand  it,  nor  do  I  care 
to  discuss  the  subject.    Good-night." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

HER    FIRST    REHEARSAL. 

Darcy  Derrick  did  not  follow  Miss  Knight  to  her  door, 
as  she  half  feared  he  would  do,  nor  did  he  utter  on  this 
occasion  another  word  in  the  attempt  to  soften  her  sud- 
den resentment  against  him. 

In  this  he  acted  most  wisely.  Knowing  women's  ways 
he  felt  certain  that  long  before  she  got  home  Dorothy 
would  blame  herself  for  her  rudeness  to  her  employer  and 
manager,  and  would  be  inclined  to  meet  him  in  a  softened 
mood  on  the  morrow.  So  he  remained  quietly  sitting 
upon  the  bench  she  had  left,  and  rolled  and  lit  another 
cigarette  while  he  watched  his  leading  lady's  graceful  fig- 
ure until  it  w^s  lost  to  view. 

"That  girl  is  my  fate,"  he  murmured  half  aloud,  "the 
type  I  have  always  longed  to  meet,  and  have  always 
known  I  should  find  irresistible  There  is  a  proud  purity 
about  Dorothy  which  would  repel  many  men,  but  which 
attracts  me  far  more  than  the  open  coquetries  of  other 
women.  She  is  not  cold ;  she  is  full  of  dormant  fire  and 
passion,  waiting  only  for  the  kiss  of  the  prince  to  wake 
into  blossoming  life.     And  I  must  give  that  kiss." 

A  smile  shone  in  his  long,  light  eyes  as  he  turned  them 
again  to  the  sea,  and,  presently,  moved  by  his  love  fancies 
and  the  quiet  of  the  scene,  he  drew  a  notebook  from  his 
pocket  and  wrote  by  the  aid  of  the  moon,  and  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  the  plashing  waves,  some  graceful  and 
tender  verses  in  Dorothy's  honor.  For  quite  a  long  time 
he  remained  polishing  and  correcting  them,  until  their 


Her  First  Rehearsal.  117 

smoothness  so  charmed  him  that  he  experienced  a  pang 
of  regret  because  his  father's  recent  death  would  prevent 
him  from  sending  them  immediately  to  a  magazine  in  his 
own  name. 

Meantime  Dorothy  took  herself  to  task,  as  he  had  ex- 
pected she  would,  over  her  unnecessary  abruptness  to- 
ward him. 

"As  he  seems  the  only  person  in  the  company  inclined 
to  be  nice  to  me,  and  as  he  is  really  overpaying  me  ab- 
surdly out  of  pure  good  nature,"  she  told  herself,  "it  is 
simply  senseless  of  me  to  let  myself  be  prejudiced  against 
him  just  because  he  looks  sheepish  in  the  moonlight. 
But  for  this  windfall  in  the  shape  of  an  engagement, 
where  should  I  be  now  ?  Seeing  my  poor  darling  starve 
to  death  for  want  of  food  I  could  not  buy.  Why,  I  ought 
to  be  ready  to  black  Mr.  Derrick's  boots  out  of  pure 
gratitude." 

Still  more  reason  had  she  on  the  following  day  to  ap- 
preciate her  manager's  benevolence  toward  her.  Ac- 
cepting the  engagement  as  she  had  done,  suddenly  and 
without  time  for  reflection,  solely  as  a  means  to  provide 
Phyllis  with  medical  skill  and  the  requisite  nursing  and 
luxuries,  it  was  not  until  Dorothy  stood  in  cold  blood 
upon  the  small,  ill-lighted  stage  of  the  local  theatre  that 
the  amazinzg  difficulty  of  her  undertaking  flashed  clearly 
upon  her  startled  brain. 

To  begin  with,  the  part  of  Zara  Carewe  was  longer  than 
that  of  Juliet,  and  to  the  full  as  emotional.  Even  Dor- 
othy, unaccustomed  as  she  was  to  dramatic  compositions, 
realized  that  the  part  was  not  only  intensely  difficult,  but 
also  very  ill-written  and  unnatural.  The  heroine  of 
"Love's  Right,"  a  Venetian  of  high  rank  and  matchless 
beauty,  betrothed  to  an  English  member  of  Parliament, 
was  supposed  to  meet  at  a  reception,  in  the  first  act,  an 
irresistible  Irishman,  addicted  to  blank  verse  quotations, 


n8  Her  First  Rehearsal. 

feeble  jokes,  and  long  tirades  on  the  subject  of  his  down- 
trodden country.  Unable  to  resist  such  a  combination  of 
attractions,  the  fair  Zara  was  supposed  to  love  the  Irish- 
man madly  at  first  sight,  and  to  own  the  same  to  him  in 
speeches  of  Swinburnian  warmth  and  inordinate  length. 
Snatching  a  lace  scarf  from  the  back  of  a  chair,  she  was 
about  to  elope  with  him  in  a  gondola  when  her  flight  was 
intercepted  by  the  return  of  her  future  husband,  her  father 
and  other  members  of  her  family  circle.  Nothing  much 
occurred  in  the  second  and  third  acts,  save  an  immense 
amount  of  talking,  but  finally,  the  fair  Zara,  after  two 
years  of  married  life  with  the  English  member  of  Par- 
liament, during  which  time  her  sole  solace  had  been  read- 
ing her  old  lover's  political  speeches  in  the  newspapers, 
decided  for  the  second  time  to  elope  with  him,  this  time 
through  a  French  window  in  the  drawing-room  in  full 
evening  dress.  The  English  member  of  Parliament, 
much  upset  by  overhearing  the  above  arrangement,  op- 
portunely arrived  upon  the  scene  as  his  wife  and  the 
Irishman  passed  through  the  shrubbery  by  moonlight. 
Promptly  a  duel  was  arranged,  but  the  lady,  rushing  be- 
tween the  combatants,  received  her  husband's  shot  in  her 
shoulder  and  proceeded  to  die  at  great  length  immediate- 
ly under  the  limelight.  Her  last  action  was  to  throw  her- 
self into  the  Irishman's  arms  and  kiss  him,  whereupon 
the  wicked  and  tyrannical  husband,  making  a  step  for- 
ward to  interfere,  was  waved  back  into  his  place  at  the 
left-hand  corner  of  the  stage  by  the  lofty-minded  Irish- 
man, who  effusively  returned  the  lady's  kiss  as  she  turned 
rigid  in  his  arms,  then,  raising  his  right  hand  to  heaven 
while  he  supported  her  inanimate  corpse  with  his  left,  he 
murmured,  somewhat  enigmatically,  "Love's  Right !" 

At  the  reading  of  the  play  the  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick  had 
hardly  been  able  to  refrain  from  tears  at  what  he  con- 
ceived to  be  the  poetic  truth  and  beauty  of  the  denoue- 


Her  First  Rehearsal.  119 

ment.  As  to  the  rest  of  the  company,  they  had  stared 
blankly  at  each  other  and  devoutly  hoped  that  a  long- 
suffering  British  public  would  refrain  from  personally  at- 
tacking the  actors. 

"It's  a  lot  of  immoral  rot,"  Ernest  Devine  had  confided 
to  his  wife.  "But  luckily  we've  got  a  contract  for  six 
weeks  signed  and  stamped,  and  as  nobody's  likely  to  come 
in  after  the  first  night  anywhere,  we  may  escape  catcalls." 

But  to  the  author,  Mr.  Devine  spoke  otherwise. 

"It'll  shape  all  right,  I  daresay,  when  the  leading  lady's 
part's  cut  down  a  bit,"  he  observed.  "But  my  scenes 
want  a  lot  of  working  up.  Couldn't  you  manage  to  let 
me  die,  too,  in  the  last  act  ?  Like  Romeo  and  Juliet,  you 
know.  I've  got  a  very  realistic  Romeo  death  which 
always  fetched  'em." 

But  the  Hon.  Darcy  could  not  see  his  way  to  altering  a 
line  of  his  masterpiece. 

"I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt,"  he  said  sweetly,  "that 
the  critics  will  hound  it  off  the  stage,  and  the  ignorant, 
pig-headed  public  will  laugh  in  the  wrong  place.  But  by 
the  end  of  another  fifty  years  or  so  they  will  be  clamoring 
for  just  such  a  play — all  pure  passion,  poetry,  and  senti- 
ment, the  hero  swayed  by  the  two  great  emotions  a  man 
should  feel,  love  of  a  woman,  and  love  of  his  country — no 
vulgar  plot,  or  trivial  incidents,  no  more  trite  moralitv 
preaching,  but  beautiful  souls  working  out  their  destiny 
oblivious  of  the  world  of  fools  outside — that  is  drama. 
And  long  after  my  play  has  been  hissed  off  the  boards  the 
world  will  find  it  out." 

At  the  first  rehearsal  Miss  Knight  greatly  increased 
her  manager's  regard  for  her,  by  being  the  only  member 
of  the  company  who  did  not  apply  to  have  her  part  altered. 
She  was  too  intent  upon  learning  her  words,  and  trying 
to  understand  them  to  think  of  anything  else,  and  her 
serious  intentness  and  parrot-like  repetition  of  the  lines 


120  Her  First  Rehearsal. 

she  had  already  committed  to  heart,  were  in  marked  con- 
trast to  the  flippant  and  indifferent  demeanor  of  the  other 
members  of  the  cast,  "not  one  of  whom  had  glanced  at  his 
or  her  part  since  the  reading  of  the  play  in  London  a  few 
days  before. 

A  dead  silence  fell  suddenly  upon  Dorothy's  fellow- 
players  as  Zara  made  her  first  appearance,  holding  her 
brown  paper  covered  book  face  dowriward,  proceeded  to 
recite,  in  slow,  laborious  tones,  and  blushing  deeply  from 
self-consciousness,  the  heroine's  opening  speech. 

"At  last,  at  last,  I  am  alone !  Ah,  how  my  brain  burns ! 
Since  leaning  from  my  casement  yester  eve,  I  per- 
ceived in  a  gondola  that  face,  those  eyes  upturned  toward 
me,  all  the  current  of  my  life  has  turned,  and  stormy 
waters  seem  ever  and  again  to  rush  over  my  soul.  This 
marriage  with  Herbert  Carewe,  which  up  to  now  I  have 
regarded  with  indifference,  fills  me  with  dread,  with  loath- 
ing !  Ah,  could  I  but  see  that  face  again,  to  read  my  fate 
there !" 

These  lines,  enunciated  with  the  halting  consciousness 
of  a  student  of  Mavor's  spelling  book  by  a  lovely  young 
Englishwoman,  who  obviously  felt  that  she  was  making 
a  fool  of  herself,  caused  an  irresistible  smile  to  spread 
over  the  faces  of  the  "Love's  Right"  Company.  Only 
Mrs.  Graham  from  her  chair  at  the  side  of  the  stage  be- 
trayed no  amusement,  but  gave  vent  to  her  indignation  in 
a  snort  of  disapproval. 

"A  raw  amateur,"  she  muttered  to  Mrs.  Stourton- 
Chepe,  who  was  seated  near  her.  "An  incompetent  be- 
ginner in  the  leading  part,  and  my  Mabel,  who  has  had 
splendid  notices  in  every  newspaper  in  England,  put  off 
with  a  mere  walking  lady !" 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Graham,"  her  companion  observed  in 
her  customary  acidulated  tones,  "preferment  on  the  stage 
does  not  go  by  merit.     Miss  Knight  is  very  beautiful, 


Her  First  Rehearsal.  121 

and  that  will  no  doubt,  stand  her  in  lieu  of  both  ability  and 
experience." 

"Beautiful!"  repeated  Mrs.  Graham  indignantly.  "Do 
you  really  call  that  beauty?  She  looks  to  me  as  if  she 
had  been  starving  herself,  as  so  many  foolish  young 
women  do  nowadays,  in  order  to  keep  their  waist  small. 
But  that  can't  be  her  reason,  for  her  waist  is  quite  un- 
usually large  even  for  a  woman  of  her  height.  She  must 
measure  fully  two  inches  more  round  the  waist  than  my 
Mabel,  and  Mabel  never  tightlaces.  Her  slenderness, 
which  has  been  so  much  admired,  is  quite  natural.  I  was 
just  as  slim  when  I  was  a  girl,  if  not  slimmer." 

"I  believe  large  waists  are  the  fashion  nowadays,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe,  scanning  Dorothy  critically 
through  her  double  eyeglass.  "Miss  Knight  is  undoubt- 
edly very  handsome,  both  in  face  and  figure,  but,  poor 
girl,  her  attempts  at  acting  are  positively  ludicrous." 

After  the  rehearsal  Marmaduke  Strutt,  who  was  en- 
gaged as  stage  manager,  took  Mr.  Derrick  aside  for  a 
short  confabulation  with  Ernest  Devine. 

"It  won't  do,  Mr.  Darcy !"  he  said,  shaking  his  head 
oracularly.  "It  won't  do  to  try  a  novice  in  the  part  of 
Zara.  The  whole  piece  is  so — well,  so  unusual,  and  so 
particularly  risky  that  only  the  most  careful  and  experi- 
enced acting  can  pull  it  through.  Now,  Miss  Knight  ap- 
pears to  be  an  amiable  and  charming  young  lady,  but  she 
simply  doesn't  know  how  to  act.  Zara  requires  an  actress 
of  experience.  Why  not  let  her  change  parts  with  Miss 
Graham  or  Mrs.  Devine?" 

"My  excellent  Strutt,"  returned  his  manager,  tapping 
him  affectionately  on  the  shoulder,  "in  the  domains  of 
low  comedy  you  are  unequalled.  I  know  of  no  one  like 
you  for  sitting  on  a  chimney-pot  hat  and  looking  at  it 
in  bland  surprise,  or  for  missing  your  chair  and  alighting 
on  the  floor,  or  any  such  time-honored   incentives  to 


122  Her  First  Rehearsal. 

British  hilarity.  But  you  really  must  let  me,  the  author, 
know  the  kind  of  personality  I  want  for  my  heroine.  And 
let  me  assure  you  I  do  not  want  a  little  round-faced, 
plump,  wasp-waisted  milliner's  apprentice  like  Miss  Gra- 
ham, or  a  middle-aged  shrew  like  the  excellent  Mother 
Devine." 

"Miss  Knight  will  spoil  your  play,  sir." 

"Miss  Knight  realizes  my  ideal." 

Mr.  Strutt  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  walked  away. 
Possibly  he  might  have  cherished  resentment  against 
Dorothy,  regarding  her  from  the  ordinary  professional 
standpoint  as  a  conceited  amateur,  who  was  crowding  out 
experienced  artistes  to  air  her  own  incompetency,  but  that, 
later  on  in  that  same  day,  he  met  her  on  the  pier  and  held 
some  conversation  with  her  which  altogether  changed  his 
views. 

"I  know  you  thought  me  very  bad  to-day,  Mr.  Strutt," 
the  girl  said  humbly.  "I  had  no  idea  acting  was  such  a 
difficult  business." 

"Most  stage-struck  young  ladies  think  it  the  easiest 
thing  out,"  the  old  actor  observed  stiffly. 

"But  I  am  not  stage-struck,"  she  said,  turning  her 
clear,  gray  eyes  upon  him.  "What  made  you  think  so, 
Mr.  Strutt?" 

The  comedian  hummed  and  ha'd  a  little. 

"Meeting  you  at  Whitlock's  agency,"  he  said  at  last, 
"and  afterward  here  engaged  to  play  the  leading  part  in 
this — er — drama,  I  naturally  supposed  that,  like  many 
another  pretty  young  lady  who  has  grown  tired  of  her 
luxurious  home,  you  had  adopted  the  stage  with  the  idea 
of  becoming  a  Bernhardt  without  either  temperament  or 
training." 

"Indeed,  no!"  she  exclaimed  earnestly.  "I  never 
dreamed  of  going  on  the  stage  when  I  went  to  see  Mr. 
Whitlock  on  business  of  quite  another  kind.    And  when 


Her  First  Rehearsal.  123 

he  suggested  that  I  should  play  this  part  I  told  him  again 
and  again  that  I  couldn't  act  until " 

"Until  you  let  yourself  be  persuaded?  Well,  well, 
young  ladies  are  naturally  vain  and  fond  of  excitement 
and  change,  and  no  doubt  it  will  be  an  amusing  experience 
to  you.  But  do  you  ever  think,  Miss  Knight,  of  the  hard- 
working and  needy  young  actresses  whom  the  freaks  and 
caprices  of  rich  young  ladies  like  you  keep  from  earning 
their  daily  bread  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  contracted  brows  and  tear-filled 
eyes. 

"Mr.  Strutt,"  she  said  suddenly  in  a  low  voice,  "there 
is  something  I  must  tell  you,  although  you  are  almost  a 
stranger,  and  it  concerns  my  private  affairs.  Instead  of 
being  a  rich  young  lady,  I  have  had  no  money  but  what  I 
have  earned  for  more  than  three  years ;  and  I  have  taken 
this  engagement  because  my  sister,  whom  I  love  more 
than  anything  in  the  world,  is  very  ill,  and  I  want  money 
to  buy  her  all  she  needs.  You  won't  think  so  hardly  of  me 
now,  will  you  ?" 

Marmaduke  Strutt  looked  at  her,  read  the  truth  of  her 
words  in  her  face,  and  a  sympathetic  moisture  came  into 
his  eyes,  too.  For  some  minutes  they  promenaded  the 
pier  side  by  side  in  silence.  Then  he  turned  to  her  and 
said,  very  gently  and  reverently : 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Knight.  If  I  can  in  any  way 
help  you  with  your  part,  you  would  be  pleasing  me  very 
much  by  consulting  me."  cr 

After  that  little  talk,  the  stage  manager  ceased  to  com- 
plain of  her,  and  from  his  long  experience  he  was  able  to 
give  Dorothy  many  valuable  hints  in  the  technical  part  of 
her  work  on  such  subjects  as  stage  gesture,  the  pitch  of 
her  voice,  and  other  necessary  points  ignored  by  the  stage 
novice. 

As  to  making  her  act,  that  was  beyond  him.    As  she 


124  Her  First  Rehearsal. 

herself  had  surmised,  Dorothy  had  no  trace  of  the  his- 
trionic temperament.  Although  possessed  of  exception- 
ally deep  feeling  and  capable  of  going  to  extreme  lengths 
in  the  direction  of  either  loving  or  hating,  she  was  neither 
amorous  nor  expansive.  As  a  ruler  the  more  she  felt  the 
less  she  was  likely  to  discourse  on  the  subject,  and  the 
struggle  for  life  of  the  past  three  years  had  strengthened 
and  confirmed  her  in  a  habit  of  self-repression  which,  per- 
haps, had  not  been  originally  a  part  of  her  nature.  Until 
this  point  of  her  life  she  had  had,  as  she  herself  phrased  it, 
"no  time  for  love  affairs,"  and  the  feeling  of  liking  and 
interest  with  which  Aylmer  Read  had  inspired  her  was,  so 
far,  the  nearest  approach  to  sentiment  that  had  touched 
her  heart.  The  strain  of  keeping  the  little  household  at 
Lockhart  Cottages  together,  the  constant  anxiety  as  to 
whether  the  rent  and  bills  would  be  met,  the  incessant 
work,  and  the  feeling  of  grave  responsibility  which  had 
devolved  upon  her  at  little  more  than  sixteen  years  of  age, 
had,  to  all  appearance,  changed  a  high-spirited,  impulsive 
schoolgirl  into  a  thoughtful,  serious  and  self-relying 
woman.  Yet  in  many  ways  Mr.  Darcy's  leading  lady  was 
as  guilelessly  ignorant  of  the  world  as  a  child.  All  chance 
of  social  pleasures,  flirtations,  dances  and  diversions  had 
been  lost  to  the  sisters  before  they  had  reached  the  age  for 
properly  enjoying  them,  and  alike  by  their  temperaments 
and  education,  they  had  been  debarred  from  the  transient 
love  affairs  w  ;h  chance  acquaintances  which  are  the  solace 
of  girls  in  a  knj.  H  Nation  of  life. 

To  the  ill-written  "^d  rhapsodical  part  of  Zara  Carewe, 
therefore,  Miss  Knignt  brought  inexperience  of  the  pas- 
sion of  love,  a  keen  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  a  distaste  for 
acting,  a  preoccupied  mind,  and  a  total  ignorance  of  the 
requirements  of  the  stage.  Played  by  an  actress  of  gen- 
ius, the  absurdities  of  the  part  might  have  disappeared  in 
the  opportunities  it  afforded  an  emotional  artiste  of  "let- 


Her  First  Rehearsal.  125 

ting  herself  go."  But  as  carefully  recited  by  a  beautiful 
novice,  Zara  Carewe  was  comical  where  she  was  not  tedi- 
ous, and  no  attempt  was  made  by  the  other  players  in 
"Love's  Right"  to  conceal  their  opinion  of  the  leading 
lady's  performance. 

"I  wonder  old  Marmalade  puts  up  with  her,"  Devine  de- 
clared. "If  I  were  stage  manager  I'd  order  her  off  the 
boards.  It's  an  insult  to  experienced  artists  to  ask  them 
to  support  such  an  exhibition." 

"Oh,  she's  mashed  old  Marmalade,"  returned  his  wife 
snappishly.  "That's  why  he  lets  her  off  so  easy.  Dick 
has  met  them  out  walking  together  twice  lately.  I  can't 
think  why  she  should  take  up  with  the  silly  old  man,  un- 
less it's  a  try-on  to  make  the  manager  jealous." 

"She's  a  deep  one,  that's  my  opinion,"  said  her  husband. 
"She  knows  as  well  as  we  do  that  Mr.  Darcy  is  the  Hon. 
Darcy  Derrick,  with  only  an  invalid  brother  between  him 
and  the  title,  and  that  he  came  into  a  pile  of  money  when 
his  father  died.  It's  my  belief,  for  all  her  Puritanical  airs, 
that  Miss  Dorothy  Knight's  come  to  this  tour  simply  and 
solely  to  hook  him." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe  were  of  the  same  opinion, 
for  which  reason  the  latter  frequently  invited  Miss  Knight 
to  tea,  and  entertained  her  by  lamentations  on  th^  poorness 
and  meanness  of  the  rooms  in  which  hard  fate  compelled 
her  temporarily  to  reside. 

"These  terrible  antimacassars,  and  wax  flowers,  and 
horsehair  sofas  set  one's  teeth  on  edge,"  she  complained. 
"I  must  really  apologize  for  inviting  any  one  to  see  me  in 
such  a  place." 

"It  is  quite  a  palace,  in  point  of  size,  at  least,  to  what  I 
am  used  to  at  home,"  Dorothy  remarked  simply,  her  frank 
nature  resenting  all  attempt  at  pretension.  "I  live  in  a 
cottage,  and,  therefore,  cottage  lodgings  seem  perfectly 
natural  to  me." 


126  Her  First  Rehearsal. 

Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe,  who  boasted  a  cheerless  and  un- 
comfortable West  End  flat,  up  many  flights  of  stairs,  with 
an  imposing  address,  looked  at  the  girl  critically  through 
her  glasses. 

"You  live  in  a  cottage  ?"  she  said.  "How  interesting ! 
Then,  of  course,  you  live  in  the  country  ?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no;  in  a  very  noisy  part  of  Hammersmith. 
There  is  quite  a  wrong  impression  in  the  company  about 
me,  Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe.  I  believe  it  is  supposed  that  I 
am  a  rich  young  lady  acting  for  my  amusement.  It  is 
quite  wrong.  I  have  not  a  penny  in  the  world  but  what  I 
earn.  My  parents  are  dead,  and  I  don't  suppose  that  in 
all  London  there  lives  any  one  poorer  or  less  distinguished 
than  my  sister  and  I." 

"You  have  a  sister,  then?  Only  one?  And  any 
brothers?" 

Dorothy  hesitated.  She  did  not  feel  inclined  to  speak  of 
Phyllis  to  this  woman  with  the  hard  voice  and  worldly 
notions. 

"I  have  a  sister,"  she  said  at  last,  rather  coldly.  "She  is 
very  ill.  And  we  do  not  know  if  our  brother  is  alive  or 
dead." 

"She  seems  a  very  superior,  highly-educated  girl,"  Mrs. 
Stourton-Chepe  afterward  confided  to  her  husband. 
"And  from  what  she  told  me  she  must  be  so  miserably 
poor  that  Derrick  would  be  a  magnificent  catch  for  her — 
the  chance  of  a  lifetime,  in  fact.  He  is  positively  mad 
about  her,  so  Mr.  Coles  and  Mr.  Wyverley  assure  me ;  and 
he  must  be  infatuated,  indeed,  if  he  can  put  up  with  her 
acting.  I  feel  really  sorry  for  the  girl,  and  I  shall  do  all 
in  my  power  to  bring  Derrick  to  the  point  of  proposing." 

"H'm!  Girls  have  fancies,"  her  husband  objected. 
"Shall  you  think  it  your  duty  to  tell  Miss  Knight  all  that 
you  know  of  Derrick's  past?" 


Her  First  Rehearsal.  127 

"What  do  I  know  of  it?"  his  wife  asked  impatiently. 
"You  knew  him  at  college.  Afterward  there  was  some 
little  trouble  with  his  father.  Derrick  went  abroad,  and 
now  he  has  come  back  reformed.  What  is  an  escapade  or 
so  on  the  part  of  a  man  when  you  consider  a  title  and  a 
fortune  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the  other  a  tenement  at 
Hammersmith  and  grinding  poverty  ?  I  wonder  you  can 
be  so  silly !" 


CHAPTER  XII. 
darcy's    sympathy. 

Two  days  before  the  first  public  performance  of  "Love's 
Right,"  as  Dorothy  returned  from  her  limited  and  strictly 
economical  marketing,  the  landlady  opened  the  door  for 
her  and  informed  her,  with  a  considerable  air  of  mystery, 
that  a  gentleman  was  waiting  to  see  her  in  the  parlor. 

"Such  a  handsome  young  gentleman,  the  handsomest 
ever  I  saw,  and  dressed  like  a  prince,"  she  vouchsafed  in 
a  hissing  whisper,  with  a  smile  that  was  almost  a  wink. 
"I  told  him  I  didn't  think  you  would  be  long,  and  he  said 
he  didn't  mind  how  long  he  waited,  so  affable  and  pleasant 
like." 

"It  is  some  message  from  the  theatre,  no  doubt,"  said 
Miss  Knight  coldly,  as  she  made  her  way  to  the  small  back 
sitting-room  looking  out  on  a  paved  yard  and  a  high  brick 
wall. 

As  she  had  half-guessed,  the  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick 
awaited  her.  His  back  was  turned  to  the  door,  and  he  did 
not  hear  her  light  footsteps,  being  evidently  deeply  ab- 
sorbed by  some  object  upon  the  table  before  him,  at  which 
he  was  gazing  fixedly.  A  flush  of  vexation  passed  over 
Dorothy's  face  as  she  perceived  that  he  had  taken  down 
from  the  mantlepiece  a  photograph  frame,  within  the 
closed  doors  of  which  she  carried  about  a  portrait  of  her 
sister  and  herself,  taken  some  two  years  before,  with 
Phyllis'  head  pillowed  on  her  shoulder. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  he  started  violently. 

"Please  give  me  my  picture,  Mr.  Darcy." 


Darcy's  Sympathy.  129 

"Pray  forgive  me!"  he  stammered.  "Indeed,  Miss 
Knight,-  you  would  not  look  so  angry  over  the  liberty  I 
have  taken  in  looking  at  your  photograph  and  that  of  your 
sister  if  you  knew  the  deep,  the  intense  interest,  I  take  in 
you  both.  Ever  since,  at  Whitlock's  office,  I  overheard 
you  speaking  of  her  illness,  I  have  been  filled  with  a  long- 
ing to  serve  you  both.  A  sister's  love  for  a  sister  has  al- 
ways seemed  to  me  a  thing  so  beautiful  in  its  utter  purity 
and  unselfishness,  that  I  was  deeply  moved  by  your  words 
on  that  occasion.  You  said  then  that  she  was  very,  very 
ill,  and  I  have  hardly  dared  to  ask  you  whether  she  is  any 
better  yet.  Especially  amid  the  vulgar  and  tarnished  sur- 
roundings of  a  theatrical  rehearsal  I  have  hesitated  to  in- 
trude upon  a  subject  so  sacred  as  your  home  life.  But 
you  will  tell  me  now  if  she  is  better,  will  you  not  ?" 

Dorothy's  back  was  turned  toward  him  while  she  busied 
herself  in  closing  the  doors  of  the  portrait  frame  and  re- 
placing it  on  the  mantelshelf,  and  the  Hon.  Darcy  could 
scarcely  conceal  the  delighted  admiration  in  his  eyes  as 
they  traveled  over  the  graceful  lines  of  her  waist  and 
shoulders. 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you,  I  am  sure,"  she  said  at  last, 
turning  toward  him,  and  speaking  in  rather  constrained 
tones.  "I  have  heard  this  morning  from  my  sister's 
nurse,  and  she  is  at  least  no  worse." 

"She  must  miss  you  terribly." 

Tears  started  to  Dorothy's  eyes.  She  turned  quickly 
away  to  hide  them,  and  spoke  again  in  the  same  reserved 
tones. 

"We  have  been  parted  before,"  she  said. 

"You  must  long  for  the  tour  to  end  and  set  you  free." 

"No,  indeed,  I  do  not,"  Dorothy  was  beginning  earn- 
estly, but  there  she  checked  herself.  "When  one  works 
for  one's  living  one  cannot  always  choose  the  locality,"  she 
said.     "I  write  to  my  sister  every  day." 


130  Darcy's  Sympathy. 

"And  do  you  tell  her  about  every  little  incident  at  re- 
hearsal, about  the  people  you  meet  in  the  company,  and 
so  on  ?"  he  asked,  with  some  curiosity. 

"Oh,  no !  I  hardly  mention  the  theatre  at  all,"  she  re- 
plied. 

She  could  not  explain  to  him  that  she  feared  lest  any  al- 
lusion to  her  theatrical  surroundings  might  bring  the  bit- 
ter past  all  too  clearly  before  her  sister's  mind. 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Darcy,"  she  added,  "I  am  not  so  proud  of 
my  performance  that  I  should  be  likely  to  talk  about  it. 
I  am  afraid  that  everybody  thinks  I  am  dreadful,  and  I 
suppose  I  am." 

"You  are  perfect — quite  perfect  as  Zara !"  he  exclaimed 
enthusiastically.  "Entirely  my  ideal.  And  I  am  the  au- 
thor, and  I  ought  to  know.  I  admit  to  you,  Miss  Knight, 
that  it  was  my  sympathy  with  you  in  your  evident  distress, 
and  my  desire  to  atone  for  any  wrong  or  trouble  worked 
against  you  by  my  scoundrelly  connection,  Sergius  Tre- 
velyan,  that  first  induced  me  to  engage  you  for  this  tour. 
But  your  reading  of  the  part  of  my  heroine  is  so  entirely 
to  my  liking  that  I  consider  your  engagement  one  of  the 
happiest  inspirations  of  my  life." 

Dorothy  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"It  is  very  good  of  you,"  she  said  simply,  "especially 
as  I  have  several  times  thought  I  ought  to  resign  the 
part,  as  I  seem  to  put  everybody  out  so  dreadfully,  and 
seem  somehow  to  be  so  out  of  key  with  the  whole  thing." 

"That  is  because  you  are  refined  and  unconventional,  as 
Zara  should  be.  Look  at  the  way  in  which  that  Kean 
from  the  Surrey  side,  Ernest  Devine,  gets  what  he  calls 
his  'effects' — by  unnatural  pauses  and  false  emphasis  and 
absurd  exaggeration.  Nothing  could  ever  induce  me  to 
act  myself,  as  I  consider  it  a  monkey  practice,  beneath  the 
attention  of  men  of  thought  and  education.  The  author 
is  everything,  the  actor  nothing  but  a  living,  painted  pup- 


Darcy's  Sympathy.  131 

pet,  who  as  often  as  not  ruins  the  words  by  his  want  of 
intelligence  and  stupid  conventionality.  Don't  listen  to 
these  people  who  tell  you  you  are  wrong  in  your  render- 
ing, Miss  Knight.  You  are  absolutely  right,  and  I  am 
very  much  obliged  to  you  indeed." 

He  spoke  as  if  he  meant  it,  and  Dorothy  was  only  too 
glad  to  believe  him.  Already  she  was  reproaching  her- 
self with  having  underestimated  her  manager's  magnan- 
imous kindness  and  chivalry,  when  it  suddenly  flashed 
across  her  that  he  had  not  so  far  explained  the  reason  of 
his  early  call.  It  was  indeed  little  more  than  ten  o'clock, 
and  the  rehearsal  was  fixed  for  eleven. 

Almost  as  though  he  guessed  the  thought  that  passed 
through  her  mind,  Mr.  Derrick  took  his  hat  and  gloves 
from  the  table. 

"I  must  not  forget  the  object  of  my  visit,"  he  said. 
"But  first,  before  I  forget  it,  let  me  ask  you  one  thing: 
Are  you  still  as  anxious  as  you  were  to  find  out  Sergius 
Trevelyan  ?" 

A  deep  flush  spread  all  over  Dorothy's  face,  and  a  vivid 
excitement  flashed  into  her  eyes.  With  difficulty  she  re- 
strained the  eagerness  of  her  tones  as  she  answered  him. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Darcy;  I  am  just  as  anxious." 

"Only  to-day,"  he  said,  taking  a  letter  from  his  pocket, 
"I  have  had  brought  to  me  from  my  home  this  communi- 
cation from  a  college  friend  of  mine — a  very  delightful 
fellow  who  went  the  pace  a  bit,  and  was  sent  out  on  a 
ranch  in  Texas.  He-  writes  to  me  from  some  out-of-the- 
way  hole  out  West — Carthage,  I  see  it  is  called,"  he  added, 
showing  Dorothy  the  heading  of  the  paper,  "the  Grand 
Hotel,  Carthage — some  barn  in  a  swamp,  no  doubt.  Any- 
how, he  tells  me  something  which  may  interest  you. 
Listen : 

"  'Last  night  a  theatrical  company,  passing  through  on 
its  way  back  to  civilization,  played  "Madame  Angot"  here, 


132  Darcy's  Sympathy. 

and  played  it  very  well.  We  cowboys  turned  out  in  force, 
and  were  rewarded,  for  the  Clairette  was  a  very  handsome 
woman,  with  the  remains  of  a  good  voice  and  any  amount 
of  go.  It  was  Millie  Clements,  a  name  pretty  well  known 
in  the  States,  and  we'd  all  have  thrown  our  hearts  at  her 
feet,  but  that  she  traveled  with  her  husband,  an  awfully 
good  looking  English  chap,  with  a  lot  of  curly  black  hair, 
who  it  appears  all  the  girls  in  the  crowd  are  in  love  with ; 
Cupid,  they  call  him.  He  couldn't  act  a  bit,  but  seemed 
a  decent  sort  of  fellow  and  well  connected,  for  the  odd 
part  of  it  is  he  claimed  a  cousinship  with  you.  I  thought 
it  was  bluff,  but  he  seemed  to  know  all  about  you  and  your 
family,  and  even  spoke  of  you  as  his  best  friend.  His 
name  is  Sergius  Trevelyan,  or  at  least  that  is  what  he 
calls  himself,  though  he  darkly  hints  he's  a  duke  in  dis- 
guise. When  you  write,  let  me  know  whether  you've  ever 
heard  of  the  fellow.' 

"That  is  all  he  says  on  the  subject,"  said  Darcy  Der- 
rick, glancing  through  the  rest  of  the  letter  before  putting 
it  back  into  his  pocket,  "but,  remembering  the  interest  you 
showed  in  Trevelyan  at  Whitlock's  office,  I  thought  you 
might  like  to  hear  it." 

"I  have  never  seen  the  man,"  said  Dorothy  quickly. 
"Beyond  knowing  that  he  is  a  cowardly  villain,  I  know 
nothing  about  him." 

"You  speak  strongly " 

"I  feel  strongly.  Please,  Mr.  Darcy,  do  not  speak  of 
the  man  again." 

"I  can't  bear  to  think,"  he  said,  "that  our  first  acquaint- 
anceship should  have  been  through  someone  you  so  evi- 
dently, and  doubtless  for  some  good  reason,  dislike  and 
despise,  or  that  you  should  ever  associate  me  in  your  mind 
with  this  fellow,  who  for  your  sake  I  detest  without  even 
knowing  why,  and  who  evidently  trades  on  his  distant 
connection  with  me.    If  he  has,,  as  Whitlock  suggested, 


Darcy's  Sympathy.  133 

cheated  your  sister  out  of  any  money,  I  do  sincerely  hope 
you  will  relieve  my  mind  by  permitting  me  to  make  it 
good  to  you.  I  have  thought  about  this  ever  since  I  first 
met  you,  and  I  feel  that  the  honor  of  my  family  is  at  stake 
in  the  matter." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  with  lowered  eyes,  blushing 
painfully.  "But  my  sister  and  I  have  no  money  to  be 
cheated  out  of  by  any  one." 

"I  hope  with  all  my  soul,"  Derrick  went  on  after  a  short 
pause,  speaking  low  and  earnestly,  "that  the  fellow  did 
not  pay  court  to  your  sister,  passing  himself  off  as  a  single 
man?  I  know  him  to  be  capable  of  such  conduct  from 
what  I  have  learned  since  I  helped  him  out  of  the  country. 
But  I  do  hope  that  in  your  sister's  case " 

"Have  I  not  asked  you,"  she  said,  turning  upon  him 
proudly,  "not  to  discuss  Mr.  Trevelyan  before  me?  His 
name  is  not  fit  to  be  mentioned  in  the  same  breath  with 
that  of  my  sister !" 

"I  beg  your  pardon !  I  wish  I  could  make  you  under- 
stand," he  added,  a  little  sadly,  "how  much  I  want  to  serve 
and  please  you." 

His  humility  touched  her,  and  she  turned  round  upon 
him  with  a  lovely  smile. 

"Indeed,  you  have  pleased  me  very  much,"  she  said, 
"by  your  most  kind  encouragement  about  my  attempts  at 
acting.  I  should  never  have  had  the  heart,  I  think,  to  go 
through  with  the  engagement  but  for  you." 

Darcy's  pale  face  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"Now  that  you  have  unbent  just  for  a  moment,"  he 
said  gleefully,  with  a  sort  of  boyish  exuberance,  "I  can 
pluck  up  courage  to  say  what  I  came  for.  The  fact  is, 
my  mother  has  come  down  strictly  incognito,  of  course, 
to  see  the  first  night  of  my  play.  Naturally,  not  a  soul 
must  know  of  her  presence  in  the  town,  on  account  of  my 
father's  recent  death.     My  mother  and  he  were  scarcely 


134  Darcy's  Sympathy. 

on  speaking  terms  from  one  week's  end  to  another;  and 
for  myself,  I  hadn't  seen  him  for  years  when  he  died. 
But,  for  all  that,  an  absurd  conventionality  supposes  us 
to  be  plunged  in  woe  and  crape,  and  we  dare  not  go  coun- 
ter to  it.  One  owes  so  much  to  one's  position  in  society. 
But  my  mother  adores  me,  and  takes  the  keenest  interest 
in  everything  that  I  undertake ;  and  so,  dear  soul,  she  has 
come  to  see  my  play,  not  one  word  of  which  she  will  un- 
derstand, but  which  she  will  think  a  masterpiece  for  the 
sake  of  her  boy." 

"Is  she  so  fond  of  you,  then  ?"  Dorothy  asked,  looking 
at  him  with  interest.  He  had  just  the  sort  of  good  looks, 
she  decided,  which  would  partake  of  the  angelic  character 
in  a  child.  Of  course,  he  was  wonderfully  good  looking, 
but  personally  she  preferred  something  more  massive  and 
rugged  in  a  man,  a  red-brown  skin  instead  of  that  girlish 
fairness,  massive  limbs  in  place  of  that  slender  grace,  and 
honest,  brown  eyes  to  those  languishing  blue  ones — but 
here  she  stopped  her  thoughts,  blushing  ere  they  pictured 
too  clearly  the  face  and  figure  of  her  museum  acquaint- 
ance, Aylmer  Read. 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  you  were  thinking  of  when  you 
looked  at  me  just  now?"  Darcy  Derrick  asked  softly, 
coming  a  little  nearer  to  her.  But  Dorothy  was  not  in 
the  least  embarrassed,  as  he  rather  hoped  she  would  be. 

"I  must  confess  that  my  thoughts  were  very  far  away," 
she  answered,  smiling  indifferently.  Just  so  far  as  the 
British  Museum  is  from  Hastings,  she  might  have  added, 
but  she  did  not  think  fit  to  do  so.  "You  were  speaking 
about  your  mother  ?" 

Darcy  was  piqued  and  disappointed.  For  more  than  a 
week  he  had  seen  the  girl,  with  whom  he  had  fallen  pas- 
sionately in  love  at  first  sight,  during  several  hours  daily ; 
yet  her  gray  eyes  could  meet  his  love-sick  glances  un- 
flinchingly, and  no  trace  of  a  blush  passed  over  her  clear, 


Darcy 's  Sympathy.  135 

pale,  pink  skin  as  he  greeted  her.  Darcy  was  of  an  im- 
patient nature,  and  felt  that  some  decisive  action  was 
needed. 

"It  is  on  my  mother's  behalf  that  I  have  called  this 
morning,"  he  said.  "Of  course,  I  have  talked  to  her 
about  you,  and  she  is  very  anxious  to  know  you." 

"Really?"  put  in  Dorothy  as  he  paused,  in  quite  unaf- 
fected surprise. 

He  looked  at  her  and  decided  that  she  must  be  acting. 
She  must  know,  as  everybody  did,  that  he  was  Lord  Der- 
rick's second  son,  and  that  his  elder  brother,  the  present 
wearer  of  the  title,  was  an  invalid  and  a  bachelor.  She 
must  also  have  learned,  from  Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe  or 
from  other  members  of  the  company,  that  he  had  come 
into  a  good  deal  of  money  at  his  father's  death.  Person- 
ally, too,  she  must  realize  that  he  was  not  quite  a  Caliban, 
and,  taking  all  these  things  together,  her  attitude  of  calmly 
ignoring  his  evident  admiration  must  assuredly  be  as- 
sumed. 

So  he  reasoned,  as  even  a  less  vain  man  might  have 
done  under  the  circumstances,  without  taking  count  of 
the  fact  that  Dorothy  was  wrapped  up  in  her  sister,  for 
whose  cruel  fate  she  was  inclined  to  abjure  the  entire 
male  sex,  and  that  she  was  furthermore  honestly  absorbed 
in  the  uncongenial  task  of  trying  to  be  worth  ten  pounds 
a  week  as  an  actress.  Moreover,  the  Hon.  Darcy  Der- 
rick's personality  in  no  way  appealed  to  her  particular 
taste.  She  had  but  recently  known  a  man  who  resembled 
her  ideal  far  more  closely  than  the  Hon.  Darcy  could  ever 
do,  and  whether  the  latter  admired  her  or  not  was  a  sub- 
ject to  which  she  had  given  very  little  attention. 

She  listened,  therefore,  in  surprise  while  her  manager 
proceeded  to  beg  her  to  come  and  lunch  that  afternoon 
with  his  mother  and  himself  at  the  hotel  where  Lady  Der- 
rick was  staying  until  the  production  of  the  play. 


136  Darcy's  Sympathy. 

"Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe  will  bring  you,"  he  said.  "She 
and  my  mother  have  met  in  society  some  years  ago,  before 
poor  Chepe  got  sold  up  and  had  to  go  on  the  stage.  Now, 
you  will  come,  will  you  not,  Miss  Knight?  My  mother 
takes  the  deepest  interest  in  what  I  have  told  her  of  you 
and  your  sister,  and  she  is  extremely  anxious  to  make 
your  acquaintance." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  Dorothy  returned  in  rather  re- 
served tones,  "but  really,  you  know  so  very  little  of  me  or 
of  my  sister  either " 

"Oh,  but  I  have  heard  from  other  people  of  your  de- 
votion to  each  other/'  he  assured  her  warmly.  "And  I 
think  it  most  touching  and  beautiful.  Years  ago  my 
mother  lost  a  sister  whom  she  loved  very  dearly,  and  she 
can  sympathize  with  you." 

Had  he  heard  any  of  the  true  facts  of  the  case,  she  won- 
dered. But  his  face  expressed  nothing  but  a  tender  and 
respectful  admiration,  and  she  was  constrained,  somewhat 
against  her  will,  to  accept  his  invitation. 

"You  must  forgive  the  short  notice,"  he  said.  "My 
mother's  arival  was  altogether  unexpected.  I  believe  she 
came,  prompted  by  something  I  said  in  one  of  my  letters 
recently — something  about  you,"  he  added. 

Dorothy  looked  across  the  table  at  him,  clearly  startled. 
But  before  she  had  time  to  speak  again  he  had  caught  up 
his  hat,  and  excusing  himself  on  the  plea  that  he  should 
have  just  sufficient  time  to  acquaint  his  mother  with  her 
acceptance  of  the  invitation  to  lunch,  he  had  thanked  her, 
and  bowed  himself  out. 

Dorothy  was  surprised  to  note  the  high  value  Mrs. 
Stourton-Chepe  placed  upon  this  casual  invitation.  The 
latter  lady  came  down  to  rehearsal  rustling  in  a  new  silk 
gown,  and  grew  quite  effusive  to  Miss  Knight  over  "dear 
Lady  Derrick's  kindness."    . 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "that  there  are  dozens  of 


Darcy's  Sympathy.  137 

girls  in  London  who  would  give  a  very  great  deal  to  be  in 
your  shoes?" 

"Why  should  they?" 

"Well,  some  girls  would  be  a  little  bit  pleased  if  one  of 
the  handsomest  men  in  London,  with  only  a  dying  man 
between  him  and  the  title,  and  belonging  to  one  of  the 
oldest  families  in  Ireland,  was  to  fall  victim  to  their 
charms." 

"Would  they  ?"  asked  Dorothy.  "Not  if  they  had  other 
and  more  important  things  to  think  about." 

"Isn't  he  good  enough  for  you?"  asked  Mrs.  Stourton- 
Chepe  satirically.  "Or  are  you  perhaps  waiting  for  a 
prince  of  the  blood?" 

But  Dorothy  only  laughed,  and  she  might  have  attached 
but  little  value  to  Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe's  sarcasms,  but 
for  the  fact,  which  was  made  patent  to  both  ladies  as  soon 
as  they  were  shown  into  the  presence  of  Lady  Derrick  at 
the  Prince's  Hotel,  that  the  Hon.  Darcy  had  most  cer- 
tainly confided  to  his  mother  his  passion  for  his  leading 
lady. 

"I  was  sure  from  what  Darcy  told  me  that  you  must 
be  very  beautiful,"  Lady  Derrick  exclaimed,  taking  Dor- 
othy's two  hands  in  hers  and  gazing  at  her  earnestly. 
"But  I  never  guessed  that  you  would  be  as  beautiful  as 
this.    May  I  kiss  you,  my  dear  child  ?" 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

darcy's  mother. 

Lady  Derrick  was  a  woman  of  about  sixty  years  of  age, 
who  in  early  youth  had  been  renowned  for  beauty  of  a 
characteristic  Southern  type,  an  olive-complexioned,  oval- 
faced  Madonna,  with  liquid,  black-fringed  eyes  and  a 
lithe,  slender  figure. 

During  more  than  forty  years  of  married  life  her  hus- 
band had  spoiled  her,  and  she  had  accepted  his  devotion 
with  languid  grace,  neglecting  him  and  her  other  children 
in  order  to  lavish  an  unreasoning  love  upon  her  second 
son,  Darcy. 

Darcy's  good  looks  and  gentle  ways,  Darcy's  literary 
and  poetic  gifts,  his  charming  good  humor  and  love  of 
feminine  society,  his  horror  of  violence  and  vulgarity  and 
the  deferential  tenderness  of  his  manner  toward  his 
mother,  delighted  her,  and  were  in  striking  contrast  to 
the  peevish  irritability  of  her  sickly  first-born  and  the  un- 
sympathetic tastes  of  her  four  other  noisy  fox-hunting 
sons  and  daughters. 

Darcy  was  not  like  a  Derrick  at  all ;  that  was,  no  doubt, 
why  his  father  and  his  brothers  and  sisters  failed  to  ap- 
preciate him — they  were  envious  of  his  beauty,  his  genius, 
and  his  extreme  popularity  among  women.  So,  at  least, 
his  mother"  decided,  and  with  the  peculiar  obstinancy  of 
certain  very  gentle-mannered  women  she  had  upheld  her 
favorite  son  in  all  his  quarrels  with  his  father  and  sup- 
plied him  with  money  until  her  private  allowance  was 
practically  exhausted. 


Darcy's  Mother.  139 

To  Dorothy,  who  had  known  but  little  of  a  mother's 
love,  it  was  deeply  touching  to  note  the  persistency  with 
which  Lady  Derrick's  eyes  dwelt  upon  the  face  of  her 
darling  son,  whose  every  movement  she  watched  with 
lingering  tenderness.  The  whilom  beauty  had  grown 
fat  and  shapeless  in  figure,  and  her  once  clear  olive  tints 
were  now  unmistakably  sallow ;  yet  as  her  large,  dark  eyes 
lit  with  a  very  passion  of  maternal  love  when  they  rested 
on  her  son,  it  seemed  to  Dorothy  that  never  in  Lady  Der- 
rick's early  bloom  could  they  have  appeared  more  beau- 
tiful. 

Her  own  position  she  felt  to  be  sufficiently  embarrass- 
ing. After  lunch  Lady  Derrick  left  her  son  to  entertain 
Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe,  while  she  drew  Dorothy  into  the 
embrasure  of  a  window  overlooking  the  sea  and  retailed 
to  her  numberless  anecdotes  of  her  beloved  Darcy's  in- 
fancy and  early  childhood. 

"I  tell  you  these  things  because  they  interest  the  women 
who  love  him,"  she  said  with  a  gracious  smile.  "My  poor 
boy  has  been  grievously  misunderstood  at  home ;  he  and  I 
have  been  kept  apart,  and  away  from  my  influence,  with 
his  romantic  and  affectionate  nature,  I  have  been  con- 
stantly anxious  about  his  future.  So  you  will  easily  un- 
derstand my  anxiety  when  his  letters  became  filled  with 
praises  of  a  beautiful  young  lady  whom  he  declared  he 
loved  as  he  had  never  loved  before." 

"Yes,"  put  in  Dorothy,  feeling  extremely  uncomfort- 
able, as  Lady  Derrick  paused  and  looked  at  her  archly. 

"And  I  said  to  myself:  'Here  is  my  dear  boy,  only 
just  restored  to  his  home,  his  country  and  his  mother, 
under  the  influence  of  some  unknown  lady — a  professional 
actress !'  You  must  pardon  me,  my  dear  child,  for  telling 
you  just  the  true  ideas  that  came  into  my  mind.  Many 
actresses  are  honorable  and  well-bred  women,  but  natu- 
rally I  thought  my  son,  who  has  only  to  be  seen  to  be 


140  Darcy's  Mother. 

loved  by  women  of  all  classes,  might  have  looked  higher 
and  chosen  either  an  heiress  or  some  lady  in  his  own  rank 
of  life.     But  when  I  saw  you " 

"Me,  Lady  Derrick,  when  you  saw  me?" 

"I  realized,"  pursued  the  widow  calmly,  "that  you  are 
beautiful  enough  to  excuse  any  young  man's  folly,  and 
that  you  are  a  lady  and  have  a  face  full  of  nobility  and 
goodness.  And  I  thanked  God  that  my  boy  had  fallen 
into  such  good  hands." 

"Indeed,  Lady  Derrick,"  cried  Dorothy,  "you  are  mak- 
ing a  great  mistake,  and  you  have  been  troubling  yourself 
without  cause.  Your  son  is  nothing  more  to  me  than  a 
kind  and  courteous  manager,  and  I  am  nothing  more  to 
him  than  the  actress  who  will  play  the  chief  part  in  his 
piece." 

"You  need  not  fear  any  opposition  from  me,"  Lady 
Derrick  said,  evidently  unconvinced  by  Dorothy's  out-, 
burst.  "I  have  always  expected  that  Darcy  would  be  un- 
influenced by  worldly  considerations  in  his  choice  of  a 
wife.  And  I  shall  be  so  happy  to  know,  that  he  is  safely 
married  to  a  woman  who  loves  him  and  who  is  worthy  of 
him." 

"I  sincerely  hope  you  will,  Lady  Derrick,"  burst  from 
Miss  Knight,  "but  it  will  never  be  to  me !" 

"You  know  that  my  son  loves  you?" 

"Indeed,  I  do  not!  He  has  never  hinted  at  such  a 
thing.  Had  he  attempted  to  do  so,  forgive  me  for  say- 
ing so,  but  I  certainly  should  not  have  allowed  him  to 
proceed." 

Lady  Derrick  drew  back  in  her  seat  and  gazed  at  the 
young  girl  with  cold  suspicion. 

"Have  you  some  other  attachment,  or — entanglement  ?" 
she  asked  pointedly. 

"I  cannot  see  that  that  has  anything  to  do  with  it," 


Darcy's  Mother.  141 

answered  Dorothy,  blushing  hotly.  "But,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  am  not  at  all  in  love  with  any  one." 

"Not  with  my  son  ?" 

Lady  Derrick's  tone  was  one  of  incredulous  amaze- 
ment. 

"Not  in  the  least  with  your  son.  Nor  is  he  with  me,  I 
should  say.  I  am  sorry  you  should  have  misunderstood 
the  position  of  affairs,  Lady  Derrick,  and  I  hope  I  have 
said  nothing  to  pain  you.  But  your  son  is  perfectly  heart- 
whole  so  far  as  I  know." 

This  was  perhaps  not  absolutely  veracious  on  the  part 
of  Miss  Knight.  But  the  note  of  patronage  in  Lady  Der- 
rick's tone  had  incensed  her.  In  the  rather  awkward 
pause  that  followed  her  statement,  Lady  Derrick  decided 
that  this  girl  must  certainly  be  either  exceptionally  cold- 
hearted  or  surprisingly  untruthful.  In  any  case,  of  course 
her  aim  was  to  entrap  the  Hon.  Darcy  into  a  marriage 
which,  under  certain  existing  circumstances,  might  not  be 
wholly  a  misfortune.  With  Darcy's  impressionable,  head- 
strong nature  and  the  memory  of  other  escapades  of  his 
on  her  mind,  Lady  Derrick  would  have  been  disposed  to 
welcome  this  lovely  nobody  as  a  daughter-in-law  with  con- 
descending affectionateness,  if  not  with  effusion.  With 
his  temperament,  dear  Darcy  might  have  chosen  so  much 
more  unwisely.  But  Dorothy's  cold  attitude  toward  this 
irresistible  wooer  disgusted  his  mother,  and  she  was  not 
slow  to  communicate  her  sentiments  to  her  son  as  soon  as 
the  pair  were  left  alone  together. 

"Isn't  she  exquisite?  Isn't  she  Phidias'  Diana  flushed 
into  life?  Tell  me,  truthfully,  mother,  did  you  ever  see 
a  more  exquisite  skin  ?  It's  like  the  first  flush  of  sunrise 
on  snow.  And  her  eyes,  'the  grayest  of  things  blue,  the 
greenest  of  things  gray/  her  wonderful,  searching,  shin- 
ing eyes!  They  draw  a  man's  soul  out.  Tell  me  now, 
what  do  you  think  of  her?    With  the  exception  of  your- 


142  Darcy's  Mother. 

self,  she  is  the  most  beautiful  creature  ever  born  into  this 
world.     What  do  you  think  of  her  ?" 

"She  is  very  handsome,"  his  mother  owned ;  "but  I  find 
her  cold  and  hard.  Why,  my  dearest  boy,  she  says — and 
she  told  me  this,  mind,  told  it  to  me,  your  mother — that 
she  cares  nothing  for  you  at  all,  and  has  no  reason  to  be- 
lieve you  are  fond  of  her." 

The  Hon.  Darcy  smiled  and  appeared  not  in  the  least 
discouraged. 

"She  will  love  me,  though,"  he  said,  half  to  himself. 
"I  shall  teach  her,  and  the  teaching  will  be  divine.  Which 
is  more  exciting  sport — the  game  that  flies  or  the  game 
that  comes  to  meet  you?  I  love  her  and  she  must  and 
shall  love  me." 

But  when  on  the  following  day  he  met  Miss  Knight  at 
the  last  rehearsal,  he  made  no  allusion  to  what  had  passed 
between  her  and  his  mother,  of  whom,  however,  he  spoke 
with  warm  affection. 

"Her  love  for  me  is  amazing,"  he  declared.  "She  lives 
only  for  me.  A  mother's  love  is  the  most  sacred  and 
beautiful  thing  in  the  world,  almost  the  only  thing  which 
survives  through  good  report  and  evil  report  to  the  very 
gates  of  death." 

His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  darkened  "flies"  of  the 
theatre  above  his  head,  and  Dorothy  could  see  that  tears 
glistened  in  them. 

"I  hope  Lady  Derrick  will  enjoy  the  play  to-morrow," 
she  said,  after  a  long  pause,  feeling  it  incumbent  upon 
her  to  make  some  sort  of  remark. 

"Oh,  I  have  a  piece  of  excellent  news  about  that," 
Darcy  exclaimed,  coming  down  to  earth  again.  "Graham 
North  and  his  wife  are  staying  in  Hastings  for  a  few  days 
and  I'm  going  to  have  him  in  to-morrow  night." 

"Who  is  Graham  North?" 
.   "Is  it  possible  you  have  never  heard  of  the  critic  of  the 


Darcy's  Mother.  143 

Daily  Leader?  He  has  but  little  of  the  highest  artistic 
faculty,  but  he  possesses  a  good  honest  tradesman's  in- 
stinct of  what  pays  in  the  long  run,  which  is  as  much  as  a 
nation  of  shopkeepers  requires  from  their  favorite  dra- 
matic critic.  He  can  practically  make  or  mar  a  play  or  an 
actor.  It  will  be  everything  to  have  'Love's  Right'  criti- 
cised in  the  Leader  by  Graham  North  as  a  send-off." 

"But  I  thought  you  despised  critics?" 

"I  do,  personally,  but  the  paying  public  doesn't.  And 
I  regret  to  say  that  North  can  make  or  mar  an  author, 
too." 

The  redoubtable  North  was  introduced  to  Miss  Knight 
on  the  stage  a  little  later,  and  roared  as  gently  as  any 
sucking-dove.  A  short,  well-built  man,  with  charming 
manners,  and  thoughtful,  humorous  eyes  behind  pincenez. 
He  talked  for  a  considerable  time  to  "Mr.  Darcy's"  beau- 
tiful leading  lady,  to  the  evident  envy  of  the  rest  of  the 
company,  and  looked  at  her  persistently  with  unconcealed 
admiration. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  my  leading  lady?"  Mr. 
Darcy  inquired,  as  he  and  Mr.  Graham  North,  Wyverly 
and  Coles  left  the  cool,  dark  theatre  for  the  blazing  sun- 
shine outside. 

"My  dear  Derrick,  I  don't  know  where  you  discovered 
her,  but  she  is  one  of  the  most  absolutely  lovely  women  I 
have  ever  had  the  good  fortune  to  behold.  There  is  an 
intense  womanliness  about  her  which  appeals  to  all  that  is 
best  in  a  man.  Upon  my  word  I  could  watch  her  face 
and  listen  to  her  voice  all  day,  and  imagine  myself  in  a 
poet's  Heaven !  The  man  who  wins  such  a  woman's  love 
will  be  a  lucky  fellow." 

"Yes,  but  how  about  the  man  who  engages  her  to  play 
'lead'  ?"  inquired  Wyverly  drily. 

"Ah,  that  remains  to  be  seen,"  observed  the  great  critic 
diplomatically.    "I  am  speaking  of  Miss  Knight  as  a 


144  Darcy's  Mother. 

woman.  I  have  yet  to  make  her  acquaintance  as  an 
actress." 

The  first  night  arrived  at  length,  a  night  of  moist,  melt- 
ing heat.  The  paint  and  powder  rolled  in  pellets  off  the 
faces  of  the  actors  cooped  up  in  the  gas-laden  space  of 
their  stifling  dressing-rooms  and  became  caked  in  raised 
white  lines  upon  their  upper  lips.  Dorothy  had  no  notion 
how  to  "make  up,"  and  on  a  first  night  every  one  was  too 
much  excited  to  instruct  her  in  the  art.  Fortunately  her 
skill  as  a  painter  taught  her  to  avoid  any  of  the  startling 
mistakes  of  beginners  in  that  direction,  and  she  contented 
herself  with  slightly  smudging  the  neighborhood  of  her 
beautiful  eyes  and  disfiguring  her  complexion  by  a  very 
little  crude  red  and  white  color.  Extreme  nervousness 
numbed  her  faculties  and  made  her  appear  apathetic  and 
mechanical.  Unused  as  she  was  to  the  theatre,  it  yet  ap- 
peared to  her  somewhat  ominous  that  the  audience  never 
applauded  anything  that  she  said  or  did,  and  the  farther 
she  proceeded  with  her  part  the  more  keenly  did  she  rea- 
lize its  many  absurdities.  "Old  Marmalade"  gave  out  his 
lines  with  as  great  a  display  of  rollicking  unction  as 
though  they  were  penned  by  the  greatest  humorist  of  the 
age.  The  Devines,  the  Grahams,  and  even  the  Stourton- 
Chepes  and  Jack  Wyverly  threw  themselves  into  their 
parts  with  unquestioning  thoroughness,  and  reaped  their 
reward  in  the  attention  and  occasional  applause  of  the  hot 
and  scanty  audience.  They  were  actors — "theirs  not  to 
reason  why ;  theirs  but  to  act  or  die" — but  beautiful  "Zara 
Carewe,"  of  the  graceful  movements  and  melodious  voice, 
caught  herself  thinking  again  and  again  that  the  whole 
thing  was  an  unreal  and  distasteful  business,  that  her 
words  were  ungrammatical  nonsense,  and  that  only  her 
dear  Phyllis'  necessities  justified  her  in  attempting  any- 
thing for  which  she  so  clearly  felt  herself  unsuited. 

At  the  end  of  the  play  there  was  a  half-hearted  call  for 


Darcy's  Mother.  145 

the  author  from  some  of  his  friends  in  front,  but  before 
the  Hon.  Darcy  had  time  to  take  or  refuse  it,  the  wearied 
audience  had  gladly  made  their  way  into  the  purer  air  out- 
side the  theatre,  and  every  one  knew  that  "Love's  Right" 
had,  in  the  technical  language  of  Mr.  Ernest  Devine, 
"scored  a  frost." 

Any  doubts  that  might  have  remained  on  the  subject 
were  dispelled  by  Mr.  Graham  North's  verdict  in  the  Lon- 
don Daily  Leader,  copies  of  which  were  eagerly  bought  by 
the  entire  company. 

"Mr.  Darcy,"  wrote  the  eminent  critic,  "whose  curious 
play,  entitled  'Love's  Right/  has  just  been  produced  at 
Hastings  on  a  trial  trip  before  it  is  presented  to  London 
audiences,  has  much  to  learn  as  a  dramatist,  but  he  has 
even  more  to  learn  as  a  manager.  Allowing  for  oc- 
casional lapses  into  mere  bombastical  verbiage,  and  for  the 
strangely  low,  or  we  should  rather  say  perverted,  code  of 
morals  which  he  expounds,  the  romance  of  his  conception 
and  the  occasional  flashes  of  real  wit  and  humor  in  his 
dialogue  would  lead  one  to  hope  that  with  further  experi- 
ence he  may  yet  write  a  strong  and  interesting  drama. 
But  the  best  dramatist  the  world  has  yet  produced  could 
not  afford  to  entrust  the  chief  burden  of  his  work  to  a 
totally  inexperienced  and  incompetent  performer.  The 
lady  to  whom  the  strongly  emotional  and  difficult  part  of 
'Zara  Carewe,'  in  'Love's  Right,'  has  been  entrusted,  has, 
we  have  no  hesitation  in  saying,  entirely  mistaken  her  vo- 
cation. It  were  kinder  to  Miss  Dorothy  Knight  to  urge 
upon  her  to  quit  at  once  a  career  for  which  in  every  respect 
save  that  of  personal  comeliness,  she  is  obviously  unfitted. 
Grace  of  movement,  beauty,  and  refinement  do  not  atone 
for  a  total  lack  of  all  dramatic  instinct,  a  wooden  and  me- 
chanical method,  a  parrot-like  delivery,  and  a  listless  in- 
difference to  the  exigencies  of  the  scene,  varied  only  by  an 
awkward  self-consciousness  at  those  very  moments  when 


146  Darcy's  Mother. 

a  true  actress  would  have  been  borne  along  by  the  passion 
of  the  scene.  Let  the  part  of  'Zara'  be  entrusted  at  once 
to  an  actress  of  even  mediocre  ability,  and  we  may  be  able 
to  judge  more  favorably  of  the  play  and  of  the  part;  in 
the  hands  of  its  present  exponent  it  is  frankly  ridiculous." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

PASSION    AND    POETRY. 

The  Hastings  papers  were  not  slow  in  following  Lon- 
don's lead. 

Dorothy  bought  them  all  as  they  came  out  and  scanned 
them  eagerly  to  see  if  any  one  of  them  offered  her  the 
slightest  encouragement.  But,  while  condemning  the 
play  as  tedious  and  lacking  action,  one  and  all  attributed 
its  signal  failure  chiefly  to  the  incompetence  of  Mr. 
Darcy's  leading  lady,  and  little  as  she  liked  her  new  pro- 
fession, Dorothy  could  not  help  feeling  deeply  humiliated 
and  disappointed,  and  none  the  less  so  because  the  other 
members  of  the  company  scarcely  attempted,  even  in  her 
presence,  to  veil  their  triumphant  amusement  at  the  turn 
things  had  taken. 

"Serves  her  right ;  coming  here  with  her  airs  and  graces 
and  a  dressing-room  to  herself  just  because  the  manager 
is  fool  enough  to  be  in  love  with  her.  It's  these  imper- 
tinent amateurs  who  crowd  the  stage  and  prevent  sound 
and  experienced  artists  from  earning  a  living." 

Such  was  the  opinion  of  at  least  four  members  of  the 
company  on  Miss  Knight's  fiasco.  The  Stourton-Chepes, 
Jack  Wyverly  and  Coles  were  more  amused  than  anything. 
It  was  just  like  Darcy,  they  said,  to  engage  a  novice  be- 
cause she  had  a  pretty  face.  She  would  teach  him  an  ex- 
pensive lesson,  which  he  much  needed.  Only  Marmaduke 
Strutt  was  sorry  for  Dorothy  when  he  noted,  through  all 
her  proud  and  determined  efforts  at  self-control,  the  red- 
ness of  her  eyelids  and  the  pallor  of  her  cheeks. 


148  Passion  and  Poetry. 

As  to  the  Hon.  Darcy,  he  bore  his  failure  in  sufficiently 
light-hearted  fashion,  and  stoutly  declared  that  the  critics 
were  all  wrong. 

"There's  no  rant  and  fustian  in  my  play ;  it  soars  beyond 
the  money-grubbing  common-places  of  their  dreary  every- 
day business ;  that's  why  they  condemn  it,"  he  said. 

He  was  really  considerably  disappointed  in  that  his 
work  had  completely  failed  to  shock  those  who  had  seen 
it,  and  had  only  succeeded  in  boring  them. 

"Dorothy  Knight  is  perfect,"  he  maintained ;  "a  poem 
in  motion.  Her  very  ignorance  of  acting  constitutes  her 
greatest  charm.  Everything  she  does  is  so  simple  and 
natural." 

He  sat  in  front  every  night  in  different  parts  of  the 
almost  empty  houses,  leaning  back  in  his  seat  and  gazing 
steadfastly  upon  his  leading  lady.  Every  night  he  sent 
fresh  bouquets  to  her  dressing-room,  always  without  a 
name,  so  that  Dorothy  could  keep  the  flowers  with  a  light 
conscience.  And  Dorothy,  who  loved  flowers,  filled  her 
shabby  lodgings  with  them,  and  wished  they  would  stand 
the  railway  journey  to  London  just  as  they  were,  and 
picked  out  the  best  to  pack  in  cardboard-boxes  and  send 
them  to  her  sister  lying  ill  in  Lockhart  Cottages. 

"I  am  getting  on  capitally,  darling,"  she  wrote. 
"Flowers  every  night.  Nurse  tells  me  the  roses  arrived 
quite  fresh.     To-morrow  I  will  send  you  some  more." 

Meantime  she  was  very  far  from  hopeful.  Brighton 
confirmed  the  verdict  of  Hastings,  and  the  chief  paper 
there  went  so  far  as  to  refrain  from  criticising  her  per- 
formance, as  "the  subject  was  too  painful."  Under  these 
depressing  circumstances,  and  the  fact  that  she  knew  the 
entire  company  were  laughing  at  her,  Dorothy  acted,  if 
possible,  worse  than  ever.  Then  a  London  evening  paper 
began  to  circulate  in  the  theatre,  in  which  a  long  and 
highly  laudatory  notice  of  "Love's  Right"  appeared,  spe- 


Passion  and  Poetry.  149 

daily  singling  out  for  praise  Miss  Dorothy  Knight's  per- 
formance of  "Zara." 

"All  that  this  beautiful  girl  does,"  so  ran  the  notice,  "is 
simple,  refined  and  wholly  admirable." 

The  Hon.  Darcy  himself  brought  the  paper  round  to 
Dorothy's  lodgings,  and  read  aloud  to  her  the  article  in 
question. 

"I  knew  the  critics  would  come  round  in  time,"  he  said. 
"This  man  exactly  expresses  my  own  views  on  the  mat- 
ter." 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  dreadfully  bad  all  the  same,"  said 
Dorothy  humbly.  "Everybody  says  I  have  spoiled  your 
play,  and  it  is  really  very  good  of  you  to  refuse  to  be- 
lieve it." 

The  Hon.  Darcy  put  the  paper  down  and  began  to  shake 
all  over.  \ 

"Do  you  think  I  would  care,"  he  whispered,  "if  even  it 
were  true,  and  you  had  spoiled  it  ?  Do  you  think  I  would 
mind  if  you  ruined  me,  reduced  me  to  beggary,  if  only  you 
gave  me  sometimes  one  kind  glance  from  those  lovely  eyes, 
or  let  me  hold  that  beautiful,  soft,  strong  hand  of  yours  in 
mine?  What  is  my  money  to  me?  Do  you  think  I 
wouldn't  be  penniless  to-morrow  if  you  would  love  me?" 

There  was  no  doubt  of  the  strength  of  his  emotion. 
He  was  deadly  pale,  and  his  voice  was  tremulous,  his  eyes 
alight  with  passion.  His  long,  pointed,  white  hands 
twitched  as  they  hung  at  his  sides,  opening  and  closing 
nervously  as  though  they  longed  to  seize  her  in  their 
grasp.  But  although  this  display  of  scarce-repressed  pas- 
sion stirred  and  excited  Dorothy,  who  in  her  life  had  seen 
very  little  of  love-making,  it  was  by  no  means  in  his  favor 
that  she  was  moved. 

"If  you  talk  in  that  style  to  me,  Mr.  Darcy,  you  will 
make  it  extremely  difficult  for  me  to  stay  in  the  company," 
she  said  coldly,  "and  I  shall  certainly  avoid  seeing  you  at 


150  Passion  and  Poetry. 

all.  Already  I  know  everybody  thinks  I  ought  to  have 
given  up  the  part  when  the  critics  said  I  spoiled  the  play, 
and  I  would  have  done  so  but  that  I  wanted  the  money  so 
badly.     But  if  you  behave  in  this  way  I  shall  have  to  go." 

Darcy  sank  into  an  arm-chair,  limp  and  nerveless.  For 
some  seconds  he  remained  silent,  staring  at  her  and  gnaw- 
ing his  red  under-lip.  Something  about  her  icy  purity, 
her  unconsciousness  of  and  indifference  to  passion  in  spite 
of  the  soft  feminine  allurement  of  her  appearance,  exer- 
cised an  extraordinary  fascination  over  him.  There  she 
stood  within  a  few  yards  of  him,  an  apparently  defenseless 
girl,  yet  so  walled  round  by  quiet  dignity  that  the  mere 
vulgar  methods  of  love-making  were  not  to  be  thought  of 
where  she  was  concerned. 

"Forgive  me  for  offending  you,"  he  said  at  last,  speak- 
ing in  very  low  and  subdued  tones.  "I  would  not  will- 
ingly hurt  you  for  the  world.  And  I  cannot  quite  under- 
stand why  you  should  consider  the  declaration  of  my  love 
as  an  insult." 

"I  did  not  say  it  was  an  insult,  Mr.  Darcy.  It  is  merely 
something  I  don't  want  to  hear." 

"Ah !  How  can  you  be  so  cold,  so  cruel !"  he  cried, 
springing  from  his  seat,  and  smiting  his  hands  violently 
against  each  other  in  his  excitement.  "Have  you  no  pity, 
no  mercy?  Can't  you  see  I  would  give  my  life  and  soul 
for  you?  Is  the  whole  love  of  a  man's  heart  nothing  to 
you,  less  than  nothing,  that  you  should  treat  me  with  such 
disdain  ?  Am  I  hideous  or  crippled  that  you  should  turn 
from  me  with  loathing  and  contempt?  Dorothy,  turn 
your  sweet  eyes  on  me  for  a  moment,  and  say  that  you 
pity  me !" 

"I  am  sorry,  very  sorry,"  she  faltered,  withdrawing 
toward  the  door,  "that  you  should  waste  so  much  affection 
upon  me.    But  as  I  cannot  in  any  way  return  it,  or,  in- 


Passion  and  Poetry.  151 

deed,  feel  anything  at  all  about  you,  I  do  hope  you  will 
now  forget  this  fancy  for  me." 

"Never!"  he  exclaimed.  "It  is  part  of  my  life.  You 
are  the  woman  in  the  world  created  for  me  to  love.  I 
cannot  live  without  you." 

"Please,  please,"  she  cried,  "do  not  make  it  impossible 
for  me  to  keep  this  engagement !  Please  go  now  at  once, 
and  let  me  forget  everything  you  have  said." 

"You  must  not  forget !  Dorothy,  is  it  possible  that  you, 
with  the  heart  of  a  woman  in  your  sweet  breast,  can  see 
a  man  suffer  as  your  coldness  makes  me  suffer,  and  feel 
nothing  in  return  ?" 

As  he  spoke  he  suddenly  caught  her  hands  in  a  fevered 
clasp  and  tried  to  draw  her  to  him.  But  in  an  instant 
Dorothy's  gentleness  and  reserve  vanished,  and  she  turned 
upon  him  with  flashing  eyes  at  a  white  heat  of  anger  that 
would  not  have  disgraced  a  queen  of  tragedy. 

"Let  go  my  hands  this  instant !"  she  said  in  a  low,  con- 
centrated tone  of  intense  anger.  "I  said  just  now  that  I 
felt  nothing  about  you.  But  when  you  touch  me  like  this 
against  my  will,  I  feel  that  I  hate  you !" 

He  released  his  hold  in  an  instant.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking the  expression  of  absolute  detestation  which  had 
shone  from  her  eyes. 

The  Hon.  Darcy  muttered  something  highly  uncompli- 
mentary to  women  in  general  as  the  door  closed  upon  his 
irate  leading  lady,  who  clearly  was  no  more  impressed  by 
his  fervid  love  than  she  was  by  his  position,  prospects  or 
good  looks.  He  had  never  met  a  woman  so  obdurate,  nor 
one  who  excited  within  him  so  ardent  a  longing.  Yet  he 
was  not  wholly  discouraged  by  his  interview.  The  hate 
which  flashed  into  her  eyes  was  far,  far  better  than  indif- 
ference ;  at  least  it  was  a  passion  with  excitement  and  heat 
about  it,  and  as  such  he  esteemed  it  less  unflattering  than 
her  former  calm. 


152  Passion  and  Poetry. 

"She  shall  love  me,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  left  the 
house.  "She  shall  quiver  with  delight  at  my  touch;  she 
shall  listen  and  wait  for  my  voice ;  she  shall  feel  my  com- 
ing before  I  appear.  A  woman  who  can  hate  can  also 
love." 

But  when  he  met  her  again  on  the  platform  during  the 
course  of  the  Sunday  migration  of  the  company  to  East- 
bourne, his  manner  was  very  humble  and  gentle,  and  he 
contrived  to  ask  for  forgiveness  for  having  "lost  his  head 
a  little"  at  their  last  interview. 

"I  am  sure  you  would  forgive  me,"  he  murmured,  "if 
you  knew  how  bitterly  I  have  reproached  myself." 

"Please  say  no  more  about  it,"  Miss  Knight  said  grave- 
ly, but  with  a  modicum  of  graciousness. 

Since  that  little  scene  at  her  lodgings  in  Brighton 
Dorothy  had  learned  from  Mrs.  Stouton-Chepe  that  the 
laudatory  notice  about  her  performance  as  Zara  Carewe  in 
a  London  evening  paper  had  been  written  by  no  less  a 
person  than  the  Hon.  Darcy  himself. 

"Could  you  not  recognize  his  style?"  Mrs.  Stourton- 
Chepe  had  inquired  somewhat  contemptuously.  "We,  all 
in  the  company,  knew  it  in  a  moment.  He  has  been  try- 
ing to  bribe  the  local  critics  to  speak  well  of  you  by  cham- 
pagne suppers ;  but  frankly,  my  dear,  they  dare  not  praise 
you.  I  am  sure  you  will  not  mind  my  saying  that  you 
had  better  distrust  the  genuineness  of  all  favorable  no- 
tices you  may  receive.  Darcy  Derrick  is  doing  his  ut- 
most to  push  you  to  the  front,  but,  my  dear  Miss  Knight, 
you  have  mistaken  your  vocation,  and  I  don't  think  it's  in 
the  slightest  degree  probable  that  you  will  ever  get  an- 
other engagement  worth  taking.  The  agent,  Whitlock, 
was  in  front  at  Brighton,  and  he  said  to  me — but  perhaps 
you  would  rather  not  hear?" 

"Please  go  on.  It  can't  be  worse  than  what  I  have 
heard  already." 


Passion  and  Poetry.  153 

"Oh,  it  was  nothing  very  unkind.  Only  that  he  was 
very  glad  for  your  sake  that  you  had  an  engagement  for 
life  offered  you  by  the  Hon.  Mr.  Derrick,  as  you  would 
not  be  able  to  secure  another  on  the  stage." 

"It  was  most  impertinent  of  him!"  exclaimed  Miss 
Knight,  flushing  with  anger.  "What  right  had  he  to 
make  such  a  statement — the  first  part,  I  mean  ?" 

"Oh,  our  handsome  manager  makes  no  secret  of  his 
adoration  for  you.  And  I  really  fail  to  see  what  there  is 
about  it  to  make  you  angry." 

Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe  was  beginning  to  feel  somewhat 
exasperated  by  Dorothy's  continued  indifference  to  the 
splendid  chance  offered  to  her.  It  was  true  that  the  elder 
lady  knew  but  little  of  the  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick,  and  that 
that  little  included  several  discreditable  stories  connecting 
his  name  with  various  women.  But  what  of  that?  A 
girl  in  Dorothy's  position  could  not  afford  to  be  too  par- 
ticular. Darcy  had  come  into  twenty-five  thousand 
pounds  on  his  father's  death,  which  the  latter  had  been 
unable  to  will  away  from  him ;  if  Dorothy  married  him 
at  once  like  a  sensible  girl  she  might  at  least  assist  him  in 
the  spending  of  it,  or,  better  still,  she  might  insist,  while 
he  was  yet  in  the  first  flush  of  passion,  that  he  should 
settle  a  nice  little  yearly  allowance  strictly  upon  her.  She 
would  then  be  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Derrick,  sister-in-law  of 
Lord  Derrick,  and  daughter-in-law  to  a  lady  who  num- 
bered an  Italian  princess  among  her  near  relatives. 

Disquieting  news  from  home  reached  Dorothy  during 
the  latter  part  of  the  week  at  Brighton.  Phyllis,  or  "Mrs. 
Trevelyan"  as  the  nurse  called  her  in  her  letters,  was 
certainly  worse,  delirious  often,  and  suffering  torments 
from  headache  and  neuralgia.  Nurse  Rose  wrote  full  ac- 
counts of  her  patient  daily,  and  was  evidently  most  as- 
siduous in  her  care.  She  had  indeed  been  surprised  at  the 
willingness  with  which  her  ordinary  fee  of  two  guineas 


154  Passion  and  Poetry. 

had  been  agreed  upon,  and  the  regularity  with  which  it 
was  remitted  to  her  weekly  by  a  young  lady  coming  from 
a  poor  little  place  like  Lockhart  Cottages.  This  fee  did 
not  include  the  nurse's  food,  "the  best  of  everything,"  as 
Cresswell  wrote  grudgingly,  "and  quite  a  fine  lady  she  is, 
too,  for  the  waiting  on  she  wants.  Still,  I  suppose  she 
knows  her  work,  and  she  do  take  care  of  poor  Miss 
Phyllis." 

Every  Saturday  evening,  upon  receiving  her  salary, 
Dorothy  hurried  to  the  postoffice  and  forwarded  five 
pounds  to  Cresswell.  Her  own  expenses  she  cut  down  to 
the  smallest  possible  sum,  but,  alas,  guard  every  shilling 
as  she  would,  she  found  to  her  dismay  that,  living  as  she 
did  alone,  the  rent  of  her  rooms,  the  extra  charges  made 
by  grasping  landladies,  the  necessary  tips  at  the  theatre, 
and  unavoidable  small  expenses,  seldom  amounted  each 
week  to  less  than  thirty-five  shillings. 

And  then  there  were  her  stage  dresses,  three  in  num- 
ber, the  feather  fan,  and  long  evening  gloves,  stipulated 
for  by  the  manager,  and  the  shoes  to  match  her  gown.  A 
cheap  and  clever  little  dressmaker  had  made  her  dresses 
on  credit,  but  Dorothy  knew  her  to  be  a  poor  and  hard- 
working little  woman,  and  every  week  she  forwarded  to 
her  a  portion  of  the  eight  pound  fifteen  shillings  arranged 
for  as  the  price  of  her  simple  costumes.  Whitlock,  the 
agent,  had  promised  that  his  client,  Mr.  Darcy,  would 
"meet  her  in  the  matter  of  the  price  of  her  dresses,"  and 
the  latter  had  readily  promised  to  do  so.  But  by  this  time 
he  had  either  forgotten  his  promise  or  was  waiting  for 
Miss  Knight  to  refer  to  it,  a  thing  which  she  could  not 
bring  herself  to  do. 

The  third  week  of  the  tour,  therefore,  found  Dorothy 
hard  at  work  again  with  pencil  and  paint  brush,  executing 
flower  and  figure  designs  on  the  chance  of  selling  them, 
rising  very  early  to  take  a  little  much-needed  exercise,  and 


Passion  and  Poetry.  155 

remaining  all  day  penned  up  within  her  small,  cheerless 
lodgings,  bending  over  her  painting,  while  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  company  enjoyed  themselves  on  the  pier,  sands 
and  sea. 

Now  and  then,  as  she  raised  her  aching  head,  saw  the 
bright  sunshine  flooding  the  streets  outside,  and  heard  the 
song  of  the  birds  and  the  laughter  of  passing  merry- 
makers, a  little  bitterness  would  creep  into  her  heart.  She 
was  only  twenty,  and,  in  spite  of  a  life  of  fatigue  and  an 
anchorite's  diet,  the  young  blood  in  her  veins  sometimes 
leaped  and  sprang  with  longing  for  a  little  gaiety,  a  little 
sunshine,  a  little  love. 

Then  she  would  seize  her  brush  in  a  fit  of  remorse  at 
her  own  selfishness.  What  were  her  trifling  disappoint- 
ments and  worries  compared  with  her  sister's  ruined  life 
and  broken  heart  ? 

At  the  end  of  the  third  week  a  letter  came  from  Nurse 
Rose  that  filled  her  with  the  deepest  anxiety. 

"Mrs.  Trevelyan  is  still  alive,"  wrote  the  nurse,  "and 
with  the  greatest  care  she  may  yet  be  saved.  Pray  don't 
think  of  coming  to  see  her  at  present.  I  will  telegraph 
should  she  take  a  turn  for  the  worse.  Above  everything, 
Mrs.  Trevelyan  must  be  kept  perfectly  quiet.  The  doctor 
will  not  allow  Mrs.  Cresswell  to  enter  the  room,  as  she 
has  a  habit  of  sobbing,  which  might  disturb  the  patient. 
You  may  rely  on  me  to  do  all  that  can  be  done.  Should 
all  go  well,  I  hope  to  send  for  you  in  about  a  week's 
time." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

HOME  AGAIN. 

About  ten  days  later  Dorothy  paid  a  flying  visit  to  Lon- 
don, and  found  the  great  city  hot,  dusty,  and  tired  after  a 
season  of  sunshine,  brown  leaves  ready  to  drop  off  black- 
ened trees,  rich  Londoners  intent  upon  their  autumn  plans 
for  fresh  dissipation  and  enjoyment,  and  improvident  poor 
Londoners  looking  gleefully  forward  to.  their  annual  week 
of  high-priced  comfort  at  the  seaside. 

Lockhart  Cottages  looked  smaller  and  meaner  than  ever 
as  Dorothy  Knight  approached  them.  The  corner  house 
was  awaiting  the  process  of  "selling  up,"  and  bills  an- 
nouncing the  fact  were  posted  over  the  side  wall  and  front 
gates  of  the  little  dwelling.  As  usual,  there  were  a  dozen 
or  more  little  children  in  dirty  pinafores  playing,  scream- 
ing and  fighting  in  the  broken  piece  of  road  before  the 
houses.  On  the  other  side  of  the  way  the  sweep's  good 
lady  was  gossiping  with  her  next  door  neighbor,  who 
took  in  mangling,  while  at  the  entrance  to  the  adjoining 
mews  which  was  the  lair  of  a  private  omnibus,  the  driver 
and  conductor  stood  beside  the  vehicle  in  conversation 
with  some  horsey  friends  discussing  the  odds  on  a  forth- 
coming race. 

It  was  all  very  sordid  and  very  mean  seen  through 
clouds  of  dust  under  the  glaring  sunlight.  Living  in 
them,  with  her  mind  constantly  absorbed  in  other  things, 
Dorothy  had  grown  to  lose  sight  of  her  ugly  and  depress- 
ing surroundings.  But  now,  coming  back  to  them  after 
five  weeks'  absence,  she  felt  her  heart  sink  within  her  at 


Home  Again.  157 

the  thought  that  she  and  Phyllis  should  be  doomed  to  live 
in  such  environment. 

"If  even,"  the  thought  flashed  upon  her  as  she  passed 
before  her  own  gate,  "if  even  I  am  able  to  keep  this  roof 
over  our  heads." 

In  her  absence  the  little  garden  had  been  neglected,  and 
already  the  grass  had  made  incursions  into  the  paths  and 
the  daisies  and  forget-me-nots  drooped,  dead  or  dying,  for 
want  of  water.  Dorothy  sighed  as  she  put  her  latchkey 
in  the  door.  Cresswell  was  the  soul  of  unselfish  faithful- 
ness, but  she  possessed  neither  method  nor  memory,  and 
having  spent  her  entire  life  until  the  past  three  years  as 
one  of  the  many  servants  in  a  large  and  extravagantly 
kept  establishment,  she  could  do  nothing  without  orders, 
and  money  seemed  to  melt  through  her  fingers. 

The  slight  noise  of  Miss  Knight's  entrance  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  old  servant  who  was  anxiously  await- 
ing her  young  mistress'  return.  She  came  now  from  the 
kitchen  to  greet  her  and  wept  copiously  as  Dorothy  kissed 
her  and  asked  for  news  of  her  sister. 

"She's  very  poorly,  miss,  and  that  changed  you'd  hardly 
know  her.  But  it's  no  use  asking  me,  miss,  how  she  is,  as 
I  hardly  ever  have  as  much  as  a  glimpse  of  her.  And  it 
does  seem  hard,  after  all  these  years,  that  me,  who  has 
known  Miss  Phyllis  and  you  since"  you  was  babies,  must 
be  turned  out  of  the  room  by  this  fine  lady  nurse,  and 
sent  to  fetch  her  beer  and  cook  her  chops  and  steaks  in- 
stead. And  it's  no  good  my  speaking  to  Dr.  Morgan,  for 
he  takes  her  part.  'Obey  Nurse  Rose's  orders  in  every- 
thing,' he  says.  But  I  says  only  my  young  mistress  can 
give  me  orders,  and  it  hurts  me,  Miss  Dorothy,  that  it 
does." 

Miss  Knight  soothed  the  old  servant  as  best  she  could 
and  made  her  way  to  her  sister's  room.  Nurse  Rose  had 
written  that  Phyllis  was  asking  constantly  for  her  in  her 


158  Home  Again. 

conscious  and  semi-conscious  intervals,  so  although  but 
twelve  days  more  would  see  the  conclusion  of  the  tour  and 
disbanding  of  the  company,  Dorothy  seized  the  chance 
of  a  cheap  and  early  excursion  from  Bournemouth  to  Lon- 
don to  catch  a  glimpse  at  her  beloved  Phyllis. 

Outside  the  sick  room  Nurse  Rose  stopped  her. 

"Your  sister  is  terribly  weak,"  she  whispered,  "and  her 
heart's  action  is  so  feeble  that  anything  in  the  nature  of  a 
shock  must  be  avoided.  I  have  been  preparing  her  gently 
for  your  visit  during  the  past  hour  and  she  is  quiet  now. 
She  is  quite  conscious  to-day  and  recognized  your  foot- 
step. Try  not  to  show  surprise  at  her  altered  appear- 
ance." 

Dorothy  bent  her  head  and  stole  into  the  room.  The 
green  blind  was  half  lowered  to  protect  the  invalid's  eyes 
from  the  sun  and  its  shade  accentuated  the  unearthly  pal- 
lor of  Phyllis'  face.  Her  small,  pale  mouth  seemed  abso- 
lutely large,  so  sunken  were  her  cheeks,  and  her  gray 
eyes  appeared  of  an  unnatural  size  and  brilliancy.  Round 
her  waxen-white  forehead  short  rings  of  dark-brown  hair, 
cut  close  as  a  boy's  added  yet  another  unfamiliar  note  to 
her  appearance.  Her  plentiful,  soft  hair  which  for  stage 
effect  she  had  dyed  a  pale  gold  color,  had  been  cut  off 
during  her  illness,  and,  womanlike,  this  was  her  first 
thought  after  Dorothy  had  stepped  gently  to  her  bedside 
and  folded  her  in  her  arms. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  dear  Dolly,"  she  whispered  feebly. 
"How  beautiful  to  have  you  here  again.  Do  I  look  very 
dreadful  without  my  hair  ?  It  made  me  so  hot  I  was  glad 
to  get  rid  of  it.  And  it  will  never  matter  how  I  look 
again  now." 

"Hush,  my  dear  one.  You  don't  know  what  you  are 
saying." 

"Yes,  I  do.    Is  nurse  out  of  the  room  ?" 

"Yes,  Phyllis,  dear,  don't  try  to  talk." 


Home  Again.  159 

"Let  me,  before  my  thoughts  go  wandering  off  again. 
Dorothy,  they  think  they  will  save  me,  but  I  know  that  I 
cannot  live  very  long.  Already  things  seem  to  be  getting 
a  long  way  off — even  you  don't  seem  really  near  me — 
your  voice  seems  to  come  from  a  distance.  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  grown  into  a  shadow  already.  I  have  never  thought 
very  much  about  religion,  Dolly,  not  to  worry  about  it,  I 
mean." 

"Phyllis  r 

"Dolly,  dear,  you  are  not  to  cry.  Death  can't  possibly 
be  worse  than  life.  You  don't  know  how  I  have  prayed 
for  death  when  those  dreadful  pains  in  my  head  come  on. 
I've  made  such  a  muddle  of  it  all.  Only  when  you  told 
me  about  the  sea  in  your  letters  I  sometimes  wanted  to 
get  well  to  see  it  again." 

"You  can't  think  how  lovely  it  looked  this  morning," 
said  Dorothy,  anxious  beyond  everything  to  change  the 
current  of  her  sister's  thoughts.  "So  blue  and  brilliant  it 
made  one's  eyes  ache  to  look  at  it.  Last  night  I  had  a 
walk  along  the  cliffs  after  the  performance.  The  sky 
was  almost  as  bright  and  clear  as  at  midday,  and  to  see 
the  little  waves  breaking  in  silver  under  the  moonlight 
was  delightful." 

"I  should  like  to  see  the  sea  again,"  sighed  Phyllis,  a 
wistful  look  coming  into  her  great  eyes.  "I  almost  think 
I  should  get  better  if  I  could  see  the  sea." 

"You  shall  see  it,  dear,  if  you  want  to !"  cried  Dorothy 
impetuously.  "You  shall  have  anything  you  want  if  you 
will  only  get  well !" 

Phyllis  nestled  her  cheek  against  her  sister's  hand  and 
kissed  it." 

"I  feel  better  already,  now  that  you  are  back,"  mur- 
mured she.  "I  think  if  I  could  lie  still  day  after  day,  with 
you  beside  me,  looking  out  at  the  sea — or  on  a  ship,  Dolly 
— wouldn't  that  be  lovely?    A  ship  that  would  sail  away 


160  Home  Again. 

with  us  somewhere  where  there  are  no  more  pains  and 
worries  and  broken  hearts — I  should  get  well  then,  quite 
well." 

Her  head  drooped  heavily  upon  Dorothy's  arm  as  she 
finished  speaking,  and  her  eyes  closed.  She  had  fallen 
asleep,  worn  out  by  the  excitement  of  this  meeting. 
Gently  disengaging  her  arms,  Dorothy  laid  her  sister 
back  upon  her  pillows,  and  went  in  search  of  Nurse  Rose. 

"The  worst  thing  about  Mrs.  Trevelyan's  case  is  that 
she  doesn't  seem  to  want  to  live,"  the  nurse  said.  "Of 
course,  being  so  very  young  is  very  much  in  her  favor, 
though,  poor,  dear  thing,  she  might  be  thirty  from  her 
looks  now.  Yet  Mrs.  Cresswell  tells  me  that  you  and 
your  sister  were  formerly  so  much  alike  it  was  difficult  to 
tell  one  from  the  other." 

Dr.  Morgan  arrived  on  his  daily  visit  at  this  juncture. 
The  patient  was  going  on  as  well  as  could  be  expected, 
he  said. 

"I  am  very  much  afraid  though,  that  even  if  we  pull 
her  through  this,  she  will  never  be  a  strong  woman  again," 
he  said.  "Unfortunately,  I  can  do  but  little  to  alleviate 
the  acute  neuralgia  from  which  she  suffers,  owing  to  the 
enfeebled  condition  of  her  heart.  What  your  sister  really 
requires  is  change  of  air  and  of  scene.  Of  course,  I  don't 
want  to  prescribe  anything  impossible,  but  if  you  could  get 
your  sister  to  some  warm  seaside  place  when  she  is  a  little 
stronger." 

"Such  as  Plymouth?" 

"Yes,  Plymouth  would  be  an  excellent  place  for  her  in 
about  a  fortnight's  time,  always  supposing  that  she  is 
strong  enough  to  be  moved." 

"I  shall  be  at  Torquay  next  week,"  said  Dorothy. 

"Next  week  might  be  rather  premature.  But  a  few 
days  later " 

"You  think  it  would  save  her  life?" 


Home  Again.  161 

"It  would  certainly  be  conducive  to  her  recovery.  It  is 
not  only  her  body  but  her  mind  that  is  in  need  of  physic. 
I  have  seldom  seen  a  woman  more  utterly  hopeless.  May 
I  ask  if  you  have  had  any  news  of  her  husband?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered  fiercely ;  "I  have  had  news  of  him. 
He  is  in  America  traveling  about  and  enjoying  himself, 
while  my  poor  darling  is  lying  there  more  dead  than  alive 
through  his  callous  wickedness.  Oh,  what  nonsense  it  is 
to  talk  about  the  rights  of  women  and  any  possible  equal- 
ity between  women  and  men,  while  Nature  herself  is  so 
cruelly  unjust  and  unfair !  For  the  man,  all  the  pleasure 
in  life ;  for  the  woman,  all  the  pains  and  punishment !" 

"You  are  arguing  from  an  altogether  exceptional  case," 
observed  Dr.  Morgan  gently.  "In  a  right  and  natural 
order  of  things  it  is  the  man  who  bears  the  buffeting  and 
the  anxieties  out  in  the  world,  while  the  woman  remains 
sheltered  in  the  home  that  he  has  provided  for  her.  You 
must  not  let  your  sister's  sad  experiences  make  you  bitter. 
Women  are  not  all  angels  any  more  than  men  are  all 
devils,  believe  me." 

"I  dare  say  not,"  she  returned.  "But,  Dr.  Morgan, 
all  those  set  phrases  about  the  male  bird  fighting  for  food 
while  the  female  bird  stays  warm  in  the  nest  don't  apply 
to  us  women  who  have  to  work  and  work  harder  than 
men,  competing  with  them  at  a  disadvantage." 

"It  is  a  state  of  affairs  which  is  not  right,"  he  said. 
"Woman's  place  is  the  home,  and  she  is  happiest  there." 

"But  woman's  place  will  have  to  be  wherever  she  can 
make  a  living,  while  England  remains  overstocked  with 
women,  and  while  English  parents  are  too  selfish  to 
borrow  a  hint  from  France  and  save  up  dots  for  their 
daughters." 

He  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  her  shoulder. 

"You  are  too  young  to  argue,"  he  said,  "and  too  pretty. 


1 62  Home  Again. 

Why  don't  you  marry,  and  get  some  nice  man  to  provide 
you  with  a  comfortable  home  for  yourself,  and  for  your 
sister,  too?    It  is  the  happiest  life  you  will  find." 

"I  have  found  very  little  happiness  in  the  other,"  she 
said,  smiling,  but  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "But  these  good 
men  who  are  anxious  to  lay  their  fortunes  at  the  feet 
of  a  penniless  girl,  and  provide  for  her  relations  also, 
don't  grow  on  every  hedge." 

As  she  spoke  she  suddenly  blushed.  Was  not  one 
man  at  least  willing,  nay,  eager,  to  give  her  his  name  and 
his  fortune,  and  might  he  not  easily  be  induced  to  provide 
for  her  sister  also  ? 

The  doctor  noted  her  change  of  countenance,  and 
laughed  softly  to  himself,  drawing  his  own  conclusions 
from  it. 

"The  fault  of  pretty  girls,"  he  said  sagely,  "is  that  they 
are  too  particular.  That  is  why  the  plain  ones  get  mar- 
ried first." 

"You  talk,"  exclaimed  Dorothy  indignantly,  "and  all 
men  talk,  as  if  getting  married  was  the  one  end  and  aim 
in  every  woman's  life,  the  only  thing  she  was  created 
for,  the  only  thing  she  ever  thinks  about.  But  you  are 
quite  wrong." 

"I  and  the  other  men  are  right  in  so  many  cases  that 
we  may  well  be  wrong  in  exceptional  ones,"  he  said. 
"Don't  be  too  hard  on  the  young  man.  Beauty  soon 
fades,  and  lovely  women  are  apt  to  grow  bitter.  Good- 
by,  Miss  Knight ;  you  may  be  sure  I  will  take  every  care 
of  your  sister  until  your  return ;  and,  by  the  way,"  he 
added,  stopping  in  the  hall  as  Dorothy  was  accompanying 
him  to  the  front  door,  "how  are  you  getting  on  in  your 
theatrical  career?" 

"Hush !"  whispered  Dorothy,  putting  her  finger  to  her 
lips,  "I  wouldn't  for  the  world  that  Phyllis  should  know, 


Home  Again.  163 

or  Cresswell,  who  might  tell  her.  But  I  am  a  failure 
altogether.     I  cannot  act  a  bit,  and  I  fear  I  never  shall." 

Again  the  doctor  laughed  softly  to  himself. 

"You  are  the  first  young  lady  I  have  ever  met  who 
did  not  think  herself  an  embryo  Siddons,"  he  said.  "But 
if  you  really  are  a  failure,  there  is  all  the  more  reason 
why  you  should  not  be  hard  upon  that  young  man  you 
thought  of  just  now — the  one  who  is  ready  to  offer  you 
a  nice  home.     Good-by,  Miss  Knight!" 

Throughout  the  hot  and  dusty  journey  back  to  Bourne- 
mouth in  a  third-class  compartment  full  of  workmen, 
women  and  babies,  Dorothy  sat  with  set  face  and  half- 
closed  eyes,  trying  to  think  out  the  problem  of  the  future. 

Poor  Cresswell  had  been  deeply  hurt  by  the  mere  sug- 
gestion that  she  could  have  saved  anything  out  of  the 
five  pounds  a  week  Dorothy  had  sent  her.  The  nurse's 
fee,  the  rent,  and  charges  for  medicines  made  it  a  hard 
enough  matter  to  manage  on  the  sum,  she  declared,  and 
Dorothy  knew  that  it  was  useless  to  argue  with  her. 
When  the  agent  and  the  dressmaker  were  paid  off  at 
the  end  of  the  tour  Dorothy  foresaw  that  barely  a  few 
shillings  would  remain  of  that  sixty  pounds  from  which 
she  had  hoped  so  much.  She  dared  not  think  of  the 
doctor's  bill,  and  her  heart  sank  as  she  realized  how  im- 
probable it  was  that  she  would  obtain  another  theatrical 
engagement,  or  that  she  would  be  able  to  meet  her  heavy 
expenses  by  the  exercise  of  her  talent  for  drawing  and 
painting. 

She  felt  weak  and  tired.  She  had  not  realized  how 
much  late  hours  and  early  rising,  working  morning,  noon 
and  night,  and  persistent  semi-starvation  had  weakened 
her.  A  healthy,  well-built  young  woman  of  twenty  can- 
not live  upon  cheap  fish,  bread  and  butter,  water  and 
tea,  for  any  length  of  time  without  some  loss,  both  of 
flesh  and  spirit,  and,  leaning  back  now  in  the  hard,  un- 


164  Home  Again. 

comfortable  seat  of  the  train,  with  the  scorching  sun  beat- 
ing on  her  face,  and  the  sight,  smell  and  sound  of  the 
cheap  and  dirty  holiday  humanity  all  about  her,  Dorothy's 
brave  heart  seemed  to  melt  within  her.  Tears  burned  her 
closed  eyelids,  and  presently  stole,  one  by  one,  down  her 
cheeks. 

One  of  the  women  with  babies,  a  woman  whose  coarse 
voice  and  language  and  aggressive  cockney  accent  had 
jarred  intolerably  upon  Dorothy  since  the  beginning  of 
the  journey,  developed  an  altogether  unexpected  kind- 
ness and  gentleness  at  sight  of  the  girl's  white,  tear- 
stained  face. 

"Change  seats  with  me,  missy.  You'll  be  better  by 
the  window." 

Her  other  fellow  travelers  followed  suit  in  kindness, 
and  Dorothy  reproached  herself  for  having  condemned 
them  as  noisy,  vulgar  and  dirty.  Still,  it  was  a  relief 
when  the  train  slowed  down  at  Bournemouth,  and  came 
at  last  to  a  standstill  by  the  platform. 

As  she  rose  from  her  seat,  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  Hon. 
Darcy  Derrick,  looking  cool,  "well  groomed,"  and  hand- 
some, in  a  light  gray  suit  and  straw  hat,  smoking  a  cigar 
on  the  platform,  while  he  eagerly  scanned  the  faces  of 
the  passengers  by  the  London  train.  Catching  sight  of 
Dorothy,  he  threw  away  his  cigar  and  hurried  to  the 
door  of  her  compartment  to  help  her  out.  She  noticed 
that  his  hands  were  trembling,  and,  glancing  quickly  at 
his  face,  she  saw  that  his  mouth  was  twitching  and  that 
anxiety  was  written  on  his  every  feature.  He  composed 
himself  under  her  glance  of  surprise,  and  hurriedly  asked 
her  if  she  had  found  her  sister  any  better. 

"Thank  you  very  much.     She  is  no  worse." 

"I  cannot  make  you  understand,"  he  exclaimed,  "how 
desperately  anxious  I  have  been  ever  since  I  heard  at 
your  lodgings  this  morning  that  you  had  gone  to  London 


Home  Again.  165 

to  see  your  sister.  I  said  to  myself:  'As  it  is  so  near 
the  end  of  the  tour,  she  would  not  go  unless  her  sister 
was  very  ill,  perhaps  dying.  If  she  finds  her  dead  I 
believe  it  will  kill  her.'  I  tortured  myself  imagining  the 
scene  until  I  was  nearly  mad.  I  came  to  the  station  and 
began  meeting  trains  from  London  two  and  a  half  hours 
ago.  'Great  heavens!'  I  said  to  myself,  'supposing  that 
she  should  not  return — that  she  should  leave  like  this, 
without  a  word  of  farewell !'  " 

"Surely,  you  didn't  think  I  could  be  so  ungrateful " 

Dorothy  was  beginning,  when  he  cut  her  short. 

"Ah!  don't  talk  of  gratitude  between  you  and  me. 
Gratitude  is  such  a  hateful,  cold  word,  though  I  am  grate- 
ful to  you  for  letting  me  adore  you,  even  though  you 
hate  me  in  return." 

"I  don't  hate  you,  Mr.  Darcy." 

"Prove  it  by  jumping  into  a  fly  and  driving  off  to  have 
a  little  dinner  with  me  at  the  hotel  close  to  the  theatre. 
You  look  dreadfully  pale;  I  am  certain  that  in  the  ex- 
citement of  seeing  your  sister  you  forgot  your  lunch  ?" 

"I  did;  but " 

"But  you  owe  it  to  me,  for  I  went  lunchless,  too,  out 
of  anxiety  about  you.  And  you  needn't  worry  about  the 
proprieties,  for  my  mother  is  coming  to  this  very  hotel 
to-morrow,  and  you  will  be  lunching  with  her  as  soon 
as  she  comes.  You  have  only  just  thirty-five  minutes 
before  you  will  have  to  dress  for  the  theatre;  it  will  do 
you  good,  and  make  me  so  happy !  Here  is  the  fly.  Let 
me  help  you  in.  And  now,  driver,  the  Carrington  Hotel 
as  fast  as  you  can  go!" 


CHAPTER  XVL 

FOR    J'HYLLIS'    SAKE. 

During  the  course  of  the  well  chosen  and  dainty  menu 
at  the  Carrington  Hotel,  Darcy  Derrick  was  sufficiently 
tactful  to  refrain  from  troubling  his  leading  lady  with 
any  reference  to  the  state  of  his  affections,  and  confined 
himself  to  sympathetic  inquiries  about  her  sister,  and 
witty  and  amusing  chatter  on  different  subjects. 

As  soon  as  the  tour  was  finished,  so  he  informed  her, 
he  intended  hiring  a  yacht  and  cruising  about  in  the 
Mediterranean. 

"Lying  on  deck  all  day,"  he  said,  watching  her  closely, 
"with  one's  hands  behind  one's  head  and  one's  eyes  fixed 
on  the  blue  sky  above,  and  ears  filled  with  the  music  of 
the  swishing  waves.  The  only  sensible  thing  to  do  in 
August  and  September,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  for  any  one  who  can  afford  it,"  Dorothy  an- 
swered. 

Her  thoughts  flew  to  Phyllis  and  to  Phyllis'  longing 
for  a  sea  voyage.  Both  sisters  were  passionately  fond 
of  the  sea,  and  at  this  moment  Dorothy,  hot  and  tired, 
with  an  aching  head  and  a  heart  weighed  down  by 
anxiety  and  grim  forebodings,  felt  that  almost  any  sac- 
rifice would  be  justifiable  to  secure  rest  and  freedom  and 
fresh  sea  breezes  for  Phyllis  and  herself  on  just  such  a 
trip  as  Mr.  Derrick  had  planned. 

"You  look  dreadfully  pale,"  her  companion  suddenly 
exclaimed.     "Do  let  me  give  you  some  more  Burgundy." 

"No,  thank  you.     I  am  not  used  to  wine." 

"Don't  you  like  it?" 


For  Phyllis'  Sake.  167 

"I  used  to.  But  I  have  not  tasted  it  for  quite  three 
vears  now.  In  fact,"  she  added  reflectively,  "I  can  hardly 
say  that  I  have  dined  for  three  years,  although,  of  course, 
I  have  had  food  of  a  sort." 

He  looked  earnestly  at  her,  and  a  moisture  crept  into 
his  large,  blue  eyes. 

"It  makes  what  I  eat  half  choke  me  to  think  of  it,"  he 
said  in  a  very  low  voice.  "To  think,  I  mean,  of  you  and 
your  sister,  beautiful  and  friendless,  working  your  youth 
and  health  away,  facing  starvation  and  death  together, 
and  yet  retaining  that  lovely,  lily-like  purity  of  mind 
that  sets  you  apart  from  almost  all  the  women  I  have 
ever  known;  I  can't  tell  you  how  the  thought  of  it 
touches  me.  Now,  I  am  not  going  to  weary  you  by  any 
outburst  of  sentiment,  so  don't  look  at  the  clock  and  take 
your  gloves  up.  We  have  plenty  of  time  to  get  across 
to  the  theatre,  and  I  must  say  one  thing  to  leave  in  your 
mind  as  a  parting  thought.  It  rests  with  you  whether 
you  and  your  sweet  sister  go  on  leading  these  cruel, 
wasted  lives,  or  whether  all  your  troubles  and  worries 
cease  at  once  forever.  There!  Don't  look  frightened. 
I  won't  say  one  word  more  on  the  subject;  but  don't 
forget  my  words." 

She  did  not  forget  them. 

She  recalled  them  over  her  solitary  supper  in  her  mean 
little  lodgings  that  night ;  she  went  to  bed  and  lay  awake 
thinking  of  them;  and,  lying  there  in  the  darkness,  she 
owned  to  herself  that  had  it  been  Aylmer  Read  instead 
of  Darcy  Derrick,  she  would  have  accepted  his  offer  with 
a  light  heart,  and  even  not  without  a  certain  tremulous 
gladness. 

It  was  not,  she  told  herself,  that  she  was  in  love  with 
Aylmer  Read,  whom  in  her  life  she  had  not  met  half  a 
dozen  times.  But,  given  sufficient  time  and  opportunity, 
she    might    well    have    become    so.     Something    in   the 


168  For  Phyllis'  Sake. 

straight  gaze  of  Aylmer  Read's  brown  eyes  and  in  the 
deep,  mellow  sound  of  his  voice  had  inspired  in  her  a  feel- 
ing of  restful  confidence.  She  knew  that  he  had  loved  her 
at  first  sight,  and  that  he  had  become  an  art  student  solely 
that  he  might  be  near  her;  and  she  remembered  almost 
every  word  they  had  exchanged  during  that  walk  to- 
gether from  the  Grassmarket  Theatre  to  Sloane  street. 

All  the  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick's  protestations  availed  less 
with  her  than  those  few  words  spoken  by  Aylmer  Read 
three  months  ago. 

"The  chief  wish  of  my  life  is  to  know  you  and  become 
your  friend."  "Love  is  the  one  thing  which  idealizes 
life  and  makes  it  worth  living,  and  you  will  find  it  out 
some  day."  "Only  a  woman  can  make  a  man  happy,  and 
only  a  man  can  make  a  woman  happy." 

Dorothy  sighed  as  she  recalled  his  words  and  tone,  and 
turned  impatiently  upon  her  pillow.  She  had  thought 
of  Aylmer  Read  very  often  since  they  had  parted,  and 
always  with  a  hope,  which  amounted  to  a  conviction, 
that  they  would  meet  again.  His  was  just  the  type  she 
most  admired  and  felt  most  needful  to  supplement  her 
own.  He  was  very  brave  and  very  firm,  with  strong 
feelings  held  in  check  by  a  reverent  gentleness  for  women, 
and  a  keen  sense  of  humor  tempered  by  great  kindliness 
toward  all  men.  A  big,  broad,  manly  man,  of  sweet, 
even  temper,  and  very  slow  to  wrath — a  man  she  could 
look  up  to,  a  man  she  could  love. 

While,  as  to  Darcy  Derrick 

Truth  to  tell,  Darcy  Derrick's  personality  affected  her 
not  at  all ;  or,  if  at  all,  unpleasantly.  Now  and  then  even, 
she  had  been  moved  by  his  look  or  touch  to  sudden, 
unreasoning  hate,  for  which  she  had  afterward  reproached 
herself.  But  Dorothy's  deepest  feelings  were  not  easily 
roused.  In  all  the  world  she  only  truly  loved  one  human 
being — her  sister  Phyllis.    Her  really  great  powers  of 


For  Phyllis'  Sake.  169 

loving  one  of  the  opposite  sex  had  never  yet  been  called 
into  play,  although,  with  all  her  capability  of  hating  as 
strongly  as  she  loved,  she  detested,  for  her  sister's  sake, 
the  unseen  and  unknown  Sergius  Trevelyan. 

But  at  this  juncture  neither  hate  nor  love  was  in  ques- 
tion. In  a  very  few  days'  time  she  would  be  in  desperate 
straits  for  money,  while  her  total  failure  as  an  actress, 
together  with  her  recent  inability  to  sell  her  drawings, 
had  seriously  weakened  her  belief  in  herself.  Two  other 
persons — her  sister  Phyllis  and  poor,  helpless  Cresswell, 
depended  upon  her  utterly,  and  looked  to  her  for  entire 
support;  and  now,  as  a  profession,  marriage — which,  ac- 
cording to  Dr.  Morgan,  was  a  woman's  only  vocation — 
was  offered  to  her — marriage  with  a  man  young,  hand- 
some, well  off,  her  superior  in  social  station,  passionately 
devoted  to  her;  a  man,  too,  who  had  already  shown  her 
the  greatest  kindness  and  generosity,  and  who  had  been 
the  means  of  providing  her  with  remunerative  work  for 
the  past  few  weeks. 

Every  one  seemed  to  think  she  ought  to  be  touched  by 
Darcy  Derrick's  devotion,  and  hasten  to  accept  him.  His 
mother  had  urged  his  cause,  and  Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe 
had  done  her  utmost  to  dispose  Dorothy  favorably  to- 
ward him.  In  strong  contrast  with  the  secret  and  shame- 
faced wrong  of  her  sister  by  the  villainous  Sergius  Tre- 
velyan, the  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick's  infatuation  for  his  lead- 
ing lady,  and  her  apparent  indifference  to  it,  was  the 
common  talk  of  the  company.  He  told  every  one  he  met 
that  he  loved  her  and  wanted  to  marry  her.  It  had 
even  come  to  the  ears  of  his  invalid  brother,  Lord  Der- 
rick, who  had  written  to  remonstrate  with  his  junior  on 
"throwing  himself  away  upon  an  actress."  Mrs.  Stour- 
ton-Chepe had  seen  Lord  Derrick's  letter  and  had  quoted 
it  to  Dorothy,  who  had  tossed  her  pretty  head  and  de- 
clared that  Lord  Derrick  need  have  no  fear  that  she 


170  For  Phyllis'  Sake. 

would  enter  his  family  or  any  other  in  which  she  was 
not  welcome.  But,  beyond  all  this,  and  an  infinitely 
stronger  argument  in  Dorothy's  favor,  was  his  suggestion 
of  that  yachting  cruise  in  the  Mediterranean  which,  if 
Phyllis  could  but  enjoy  it  also,  might  be  the  means  of 
restoring  her  to  health. 

Dorothy  thought  of  all  these  things,  tossing  restlessly 
upon  her  sleepless  bed.  She  could  not  bring  herself  to 
regard  the  absolute  personality  of  Darcy  Derrick,  as  a 
necessary  part  of  the  bargain,  with  any  sentiment  but  a 
slight  repugnance.  The  womanish  beauty  of  his  delicate 
white  hands,  the  transparent  pallor  of  his  skin,  the  lan- 
guishing look  in  his  long,  blue  eyes  under  their  silky, 
dark  eyelashes,  and,  above  all,  the  vivid  red  of  his  under- 
lip  which  he  perpetually  gnawed  when  excited — all  these 
things,  and  even  his  graceful  figure  and  smooth,  sweet 
voice,  which  other  women  regarded  as  irresistible,  inspired 
in  Dorothy  a  feeling  of  impatience  and  irritation. 

Her  nature  instinctively  revolted  against  allying  her- 
self with  a  type  for  which  she  had  neither  sympathy  nor 
liking,  and  although,  owing  in  part  to  her  mother's  early 
death  and  her  sheltered  home  education,  Dorothy  under- 
stood little  more  of  the  married  state  at  twenty  than  she 
had  done  at  four,  she  yet  shrank  from  the  thought  of 
becoming  the  wife  of  a  man  for  whom  she  could  not  bring 
herself  to  care.  She  had  been  very  well  educated  accord- 
ing to  the  accepted  ideas  for  the  education  of  wealthy 
young  ladies  of  the  middle  class.  She  knew  by  heart 
all  the  stock  anecdotes  of  kings  and  queens  which  are 
supposed  to  constitute  the  History  of  England ;  she  could 
add  up  easy  sums,  play  dance  music  more  or  less  imper- 
fectly at  sight,  read  Goethe's  "Faust"  (revised)  in  the 
original,  make  herself  understood  among  intelligent 
French  people,  sing  Italian  songs  of  moderate  compass 
moderately  in  tune,  dance  the  waltz  popular  when  she  was 


For  Phyllis'  Sake.  171 

at  school,  walk  with  head  erect  and  toes  turned  at  the 
proper  angle,  and,  best  of  all,  she  could  speak  her  own 
language  without  a  trace  of  cockney  and  with  only  occa- 
sional blunders  in  grammar.  In  a  word,  she  was  very 
well  educated. 

But  of  the  nature  of  man  as  man,  and  woman  as  woman, 
of  the  difference  between  them,  and  the  passions  that 
move  them,  she  knew  exactly  nothing  at  all.  Otherwise 
she  would  never  have  decided  before  she  fell  asleep  that 
night  that  perhaps  it  was  her  duty  to  become  the  wife  of 
the  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick. 

Darcy's  mother,  when  she  arrived  at  Bournemouth  on 
the  following  day,  tried  vainly  to  reason  with  her  son 
on  the  subject  of  his  infatuation  for  Miss  Knight. 

"Of  course,,  she  is  only  hanging  back  to  draw  you  on," 
she  said.  "I  wonder,  dearest,  you  can  let  her  play  with 
you.  You  are  getting  positively  thin  and  worn  with 
worrying  about  her.  And  what  is  she,  after  all,  but  a 
penniless  nobody,  besides  being  the  very  worst  actress  I 
have  ever  seen." 

"She  is  a  goddess!"  he  murmured.  "The  most  peer- 
lessly lovely  being  ever  born  into  this  world." 

"But  you  have  talked  like  that  of  others,"  cried  his 
mother.  "So  many,  many  others,  my  dear  son,  whose 
names  you  have  by  this  time  forgotten." 

"No  woman  has  made  me  feel  as  this  one  does/'  he  re- 
turned. "Mother,  I  must  have  her — I  cannot  live  without 
her!" 

He  caught  his  mother's  hand  in  his  hot,  fevered  clasp. 

"I  am  going  mad  for  love  of  her,"  he  said.  "Her  very 
coldness,  her  indifference,  thrill  me  more  than  other 
women's  tenderest  caresses.  How  exquisite,  how  raptur- 
ous it  will  be  to  see  the  coldness  turn  to  red-hot  hate, 
and  from  hate  melt  into  burning  love !" 


172  For  Phyllis'  Sake. 

"Hate!"  Lady  Derrick  repeated.  "Do  you  mean  that 
she  could  hate  you  ?" 

"She  can,  and  will,"  he  answered  dreamily.  "I  know 
her  nature.  Under  that  cold  crust  lies  a  pent-up  volcano 
of  emotion.  She  is  made  of  'spirit,  fire  and  dew,'  like 
Browning's  'Evelyn  Hope.'  Look  at  that  exquisite,  thin 
face  of  hers,  in  which  the  least  feeling  shows  through  the 
fine,  pale  skin,  soft  and  clear  as  the  inner  petals  of  a 
newly-blown  blush  rose.  Look  at  the  perfect  modeling 
of  her  arms,  round  without  the  least  approach  to  fatness ; 
all  through  the  third  act  last  night  I  never  once  took  my 
eyes  off  her  arms — a  man  might  well  sell  his  soul  to  feel 
them  clinging  around  his  neck.  There  is  something  in 
her  voice,  a  cooling,  caressing  quality  that  allures  irre- 
sistibly, with  every  now  and  then  a  cold,  almost  hard, 
note  dropped  in  to  pique  a  man  by  the  sharp  contrast. 
I  tell  you,  mother,  Dorothy  has  all  the  fascinations  of  all 
the  women  I  have  ever  met  and  loved,  and  of  others  that 
I  have  dreamed  of,  rolled  into  one." 

"You  are  a  poet,  my  darling,"  said  his  mother,  fondly 
stroking  his  brow,  "and  you  talk  yourself  into  these 
frenzies  of  loving.  Your  eyes  are  quite  haggard  and  your 
hair  is  moist  with  excitement.  How  dare  she  be  so  hard 
and  cruel  to  my  dear,  handsome  boy  ?  She  ought  to  think 
herself  highly  honored  by  your  love,  without  any  hope 
of  ever  becoming  your  wife !  But  to  presume  to  refuse 
that  honor " 

"Don't,  mother,  for  heaven's  sake !  If  you  adopt  that 
tone  toward  her  my  cause  is  hopeless.  If  you  wish  to 
save  my  life  and  reason  you  must  work  with  me  in  this. 
All  she  cares  for  in  the  world  at  present — until  she  has 
married  me — is  her  sister.  Play  upon  that.  Tell  her  how 
much  I  feel  for  them  both,  how  much  I  have  told  you 
about  them " 

"Have  you  ever  seen  the  sister?" 


For  Phyllis'  Sake.  173 

"I  ?  No.  How  should  I  have  seen  her  ?  But  I  believe 
they  are  very  much  alike,  so  no  doubt  she  is  beautiful. 
And  Dorothy  adores  her." 

"I  cannot  understand  these  ice-cold  young  English 
women,  who  love  their  sisters  better  than  their  sweet- 
hearts," observed  Lady  Derrick.  "But  if  marrying  her 
will  make  you  happy,  why,  you  must  marry  her,  I  suppose. 
And  1  will  do  anything  in  the  world  to  help  you,  my 
dearest  one." 

So  she  treated  Dorothy,  after  lunch,  to  more  anecdotes 
of  her  son's  infancy  and  boyhood,  all  tending  to  show 
him  in  a  heroic  and  irresistible  light,  and  she  dilated  upon 
his  filial  devotion  and  upon  the  persecution  he  had  en- 
dured for  many  years  from  his  jealous  brothers  and 
sisters  and  his  unforgiving  father — persecution  which  had 
driven  him  from  his  home  and  made  an  exile  of  him 
in  France  and  Italy  for  nearly  seven  years.  Through  all 
that  time  she  described,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  how  he 
had  never  forgotten  his  poor  mother,  but  had  constantly 
written  to  her  and  sent  her  flowers  and  little  gifts  in 
token  of  his  unswerving  loyalty  and  love. 

"And  no  doubt,  my  dear,"  Lady  Derrick  concluded, 
with  feminine  astuteness,  "it  is  his  fondness  for  me  which 
makes  him  so  thoroughly  understand  the  love  between 
you  and  your  sister.  I  assure  you,  Darcy  has  spoken 
of  it  to  me  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  tells  me  he  has 
never  even  seen  your  sister,  but  he  speaks  of  her  as  a 
brother  already." 

All  these  sayings  were  not  without  their  due  weight 
on  Dorothy.  But  on  the  last  night  of  the  week  at  Bourne- 
mouth the  Hon.  Darcy  did  much  to  imperil  his  chances 
of  success  by  his  own  indiscretion. 

The  theatre  was  less  empty  than  usual  in  the  more 
expensive  parts,  it  having  got  about  among  some  of  the 
fashionable  hotels  in  the  town  that  "Love's  Right"  was 


174  For  Phyllis'  Sake. 

rather  immoral,  that  "Mr.  Darcy,"  the  author  and  man- 
ager, was  the  late  Lord  Derrick's  second  son,  and  that 
Miss  Knight,  his  leading  lady,  was  a  singularly  beautiful 
woman.  Mr.  Derrick  had  been  dining  with  some  friends, 
and  came  on  with  them  afterward  to  a  box,  arriving  half- 
way through  the  performance.  His  friends,  all  of  the 
male  sex,  were  enthusiastic  in  their  appreciation  of  Doro- 
thy's good  looks,  and  during  the  third  act  the  Hon.  Darcy, 
moved  by  love,  excitement  and  champagne,  left  his' box, 
and,  going  round  to  the  stage,  watched  his  lady  love  with 
enraptured  eyes  from  the  wings. 

When  Zara  Carewe's  last  exit  arrived,  Dorothy  made 
her  way  toward  her  dressing-room,  carefully  drawing  her 
long,  tight  gloves  off  her  arms,  which  were  too  fair  to 
require  the  customary  paint  and  powder.  Suddenly,  in 
the  passage  from  which  the  dressing-room  doors  opened, 
she  found  herself  seized  in  the  grasp  of  a  man  who  was 
closely  following  her,  and  who,  pinioning  her  arms  against 
her  sides,  pressed  his  hot  lips  on  her  bare  shoulders. 

In  a  moment,  by  a  sharp  movement,  she  had  freed  her- 
self, and,  bearing  off  the  glove  she  was  unfastening,  had 
struck  her  manager  with  it  full  in  the  face. 

More  than  one  member  of  the  company  witnessed  the 
incident  as  they  hurried  to  their  rooms  to  change  their 
costumes  for  the  last  act,  and  more  than  one  heard,  too, 
Dorothy's  exclamation  in  tones  of  unconcealed  scorn  and 
anger : 

"How  dare  you !" 

For,  at  Darcy 's  kiss,  into  the  girl's  heart  there  swept 
an  uncontrollable  feeling  of  repulsion  and  disgust.  She 
could  not  even  proceed  with  her  stage  toilette  without 
washing  and  scrubbing  her  white  shoulders  until  the  skin 
was  reddened  and  sore.  She  had  begun  rather  to  like 
Darcy  Derrick,  to  be  touched  by  his  devotion,  and  to 
regard  marriage  with  him  as  her  possible  fate  at  least  with 


For  Phyllis'  Sake.  175 

equanimity ;  but  that  kiss  made  her  for  the  time  absolutely 
hate  him;  nor  would  she  exchange  one  word  with  him 
during  two  or  three  days  that  followed. 

At  last,  on  the  Wednesday  of  the  Plymouth  week,  Mr. 
Jack  Wyverley,  dispatched  by  his  friend  and  manager 
on  a  very  important  mission  to  Miss  Dorothy  Knight's 
lodgings,  found  her  painting  materials  ready  on  the  table 
of  her  sitting-room,  but  the  lady  herself  absent.  She  had 
gone,  so  the  landlady  informed  him,  to  make  a  pencil 
sketch  of  the  shipping  in  the  harbor  from  the  Hoe.  And 
here  Jack  Wyverley  found  her  seated,  not  far  from 
Drake's  statue,  not  sketching,  but  staring  out  to  sea  with 
a  troubled  look  in  her  brilliant,  gray-green  eyes. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  forenoon,  and  there  was  no 
one  else  in  sight.  It  was  an  admirable  opportunity  for 
accomplishing  his  errand,  and  Jack  Wyverley  grinned 
and  showed  his  handsome  white  teeth  as  he  took  his 
place  on  the  bench  beside  her,  after  raising  his  hat  and 
bidding  her  good-morning. 

"I  have  come  as  an  ambassador,"  he  began  cheerfully. 

"Oh !     From  Mr.  Darcy,  I  suppose  ?"  she  said  coldly. 

"Yes.  But  I  want  to  talk  business.  It  isn't  necessary 
for  me  to  say  he  adores  you,  and  is  simply  dying  for  love 
of  you,  because  you  know  it." 

"I  have  heard  all  about  it,"  she  returned  wearily,  "and 
I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more.  And  if  you  are  going 
to  talk  business,  Mr.  Wyverley,  I  will  tell  you  this  frankly 
— that  I  know  quite  well  it  would  be  to  my  interest  to 
marry  Mr.  Derrick,  but  that  I  have  tried  hard  to  love 
him  sufficiently,  and  I  simply  can't." 

"He  doesn't  hope  for  your  love  yet.  Though  you  must 
be  awfully  hard-hearted,  I  think,  Miss  Knight,  not  to  be 
sorry  for  him." 

"Yes.  But  we  don't  love  people  just  because  we  are 
sorry  for  them." 


176  For  Phyllis'  Sake. 

"Don't  people  say  'pity  is  akin  to  love  ?'  What  is  there 
about  Darcy  you  don't  like?  Most  people  think  him  a 
regular  Adonis." 

Jack  Wyverley  had  a  bright  "afternoon  tea-table"  man- 
ner with  women  of  education  that  inspired  liking  and 
confidence.     Dorothy  turned  on  him  with  puzzled  eyes. 

"The  odd  part  of  it  is,"  she  said,  "that  I  don't  know 
why  I  don't  like  him.  He  is  very  kind  and  very  amusing, 
and,  of  course,  very  good  looking,  too,  in  a  style  that  I 
don't  in  the  least  admire ;  but — I  really  can't  describe  it — 
the  moment  he  begins  to  get  in  the  least  lover-like  I  posi- 
tively hate  him!" 

Into  Jack  Wyverley 's  prominent  blue  eyes  there  flashed 
a  sudden  look  of  comprehension,  and  even  of  sympathy ; 
but  the  next  moment  his  red  face  appeared  as  expres- 
sionless as  ever. 

"That's  awkward,  of  course,"  he  said  briskly ;  "but,  as 
your  own  dislike  is  altogether  unreasonable  and  unfound- 
ed, it's  certain  to  pass  away.  Do  you  remember  what 
Mrs.  Malaprop  says  about  sympathy  and  aversion?  'As 
both  are  sure  to  wear  off,  it's  safer  in  matrimony  to  begin 
with  a  little  aversion.'  Seriously,  Miss  Knight,  poor 
Darcy  is  in  an  awfully  bad  way,  realizing  that  it's  the 
last  week  of  the  tour,  and  that  he  has  somehow  offended 
you,  and  he's  off  his  head  for  fear  of  losing  you.  So 
he  did  me  the  honor  of  taking  my  advice.  I've  made  a 
glorious  muddle  of  my  own  affairs,  but  I  am  Ai  over 
managing  other  people's.  Now,  I  said  this:  'As  Miss 
Knight  is  not  to  be  moved  by  sentiment,  come  to  business.' 
We  had  a  long  talk,  and  agreed  on  a  certain  course,  and 
as  a  result  I  have  been  up  to  London,  and  I  have  brought 
to  you,"  he  went  on,  drawing  a  bulky  envelope  from  under 
his  coat,  "a  copy  of  the  late  Lord  Derrick's  will,  which 
you  have  no  doubt  already  seen  quoted  in  the  newspapers, 
by  which  twenty-five  thousand  pounds  came  into  Darcy's 


For  Phyllis'  Sake.  177 

possession  a  few  months  ago  through  the  bequest  of  his 
grandfather,  and  also  the  draft  of  a  legal  document  by 
which  two  hundred  a  year  will  be  settled  absolutely  for 
her  life  upon  your  sister  from  the  moment  that  you  be- 
come the  Hon.  Mrs.  Darcy  Derrick." 

"On  my  sister?" 

"Yes.  Darcv  knows  money  is  no  temptation  to  you, 
except  for  your  sister's  sake.  He  will  come  into  fifteen 
thousand  a  year,  and  the  title  and  estates  when  his  brother, 
who  is  consumptive,  dies.  But,  until  that  event,  with  his 
present  income  of  only  about  one  thousand  a  year,  and  a 
little  allowance  from  his  mother,  I  think  myself  it  is  rather 
a  handsome  offer.  If  you  accept  it,  a  lawyer  in  this 
town  will  be  immediately  sent  to  make  it  perfectly  legal 
and  binding.  Darcy  says  he  knows  he  is  rather  extrava- 
gant, and  that  therefore  he  would  prefer  that  the  money 
for  your  sister's  maintenance  should  be  taken  right  out  of 
his  control.  Once  your  anxiety  about  her  is  relieved,  he 
feels  that  he  may  perhaps  win  your  love." 

Dorothy  read  through  both  papers  carefully.  When 
she  returned  them  to  Mr.  Wyverley  tears  stood  in  her 
eyes. 

"It  is  very,  very  good  and  thoughtful  and  generous  of 
him,"  she  murmured,  "and  I  am  not  in  a  position  to  refuse 
such  an  offer.  But  you  must  tell  him  the  truth,  Mr. 
Wyverley.  I  don't  love  him;  but  I  will  try  and  be 
worthy  of  his  unselfish  love.  I  have  no  money  and  no 
friends,  and  not  even  any  talent,"  she  added  sadly,  "or 
I  should  even  now  say  no.  But  I  am  in  desperate  need 
of  money.  It  sounds  a  mean  thing  to  marry  for  that, 
but  as  it  isn't  for  myself  I  want  it,  it  cannot  be  so  bad. 
If  Mr.  Derrick  will  take  me  on  such  terms,  I  will  try 
to  be  a  good  wife  to  him.  And  surely  it  will  be  easy  to 
love  any  one  so  good  and  generous,  whose  mother,  and 
whose  friends,  are  alike  devoted  to  him." 


178  For  Phyllis'  Sake. 

Her  clear,  sweet  tones,  the  truth  that  shone  from  her 
tearful  eyes,  and  the  maidenly  blushes  that  passed  over 
her  sensitive  skin — all  these  things  affected  Mr.  Jack 
Wyverley  strangely. 

He  felt  his  cheeks  grow  hot,  and  an  unaccountable 
impulse  came  upon  him  to  hurl  the  papers  in  his  hand 
over  the  cliff  into  the  sea  which  stretched,  blue  and 
sparkling,  many  feet  below.  But  after  thirty-eight  years 
of  checkered  existence,  he  knew  the  folly  of  yielding  to 
impulses,  and  after  a  short  pause  he  rose,  raised  his  hat, 
and  left  Dorothy  alone  with  her  thoughts. 

Only  where  his  heart,  from  the  sentimental  and  not 
from  the  anatomical  point  of  view,  used  to  be,  he  felt  an 
odd  soreness. 

"I've  done  a  good  many  mean  things  for  a  pal  before 
now,"  he  told  himself  on  his  way  back  to  the  Hon.  Darcy's 
hotel,  "but  I'm  bothered  if  this  isn't  the  meanest  of 
them  all !" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THK    BLOW    FALLS. 

The  last  day  of  the  tour  of  "Love's  Right"  had  ar- 
rived, and  for  the  first  and  last  time  the  part  of  Zara 
Carevve  was  to  be  performed  by  an  understudy. 

For  Miss  Dorothy  Knight,  the  original  exponent  of 
the  part,  was  to  be  married  to  her  manager,  the  Hon. 
Darcy  Derrick,  in  St.  James'  Church,  at  half-past  two 
that  day,  and  the  happy  pair  were  to  start  on  a  honey' 
moon  to  Penzance  and  the  Scilly  Isles  by  the  train  which 
left  Plymouth  at  a  quarter  to  four. 

Everything,  down  to  the  minutest  details,  had  been 
settled  with  the  most  wonderful  expedition.  Some 
charming  rooms  had  been  taken  for  Phyllis,  and  thither 
she  was  to  be  transported,  under  Nurse  Rose's  care,  in  a 
week's  time,  to  await  the  return  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Derrick 
from  their  honeymoon.  Afterward  a  cruise  round  about 
the  Cornish  coast  was  to  precede  Darcy's  triumphant 
bringing  home  of  his  bride  to  Derrick  Castle,  and  her 
introduction  to  the  other  members  of  his  family. 

Aided  by  his  trusty  friends,  Coles  and  Wyverley,  Darcy 
made  his  arrangements  with  such  lightning  celerity  that 
he  left  his  fiancee  no  time  for  changing  her  mind.  On 
Wednesday  morning  she  had  finally  accepted  him,  and 
Wednesday  afternoon  saw  the  drawing  up  by  a  local 
solicitor  of  the  deed  by  which  Phyllis  was  to  enjoy  two 
hundred  a  year  from  the  hour  of  her  sister's  marriage. 
Wednesday  evening  found  a  diamond  engagement  ring 
on  Dorothy's  finger.     Thursday  was  spent  by  Darcy  in 


180  The  Blow  Falls. 

London,  whence  he  returned  to  Plymouth  with  a  special 
marriage  license  in  his  pocket.  Friday  morning  was 
passed  in  shopping,  and  the  afternoon  in  a  long  drive  on 
which,  at  Dorothy's  insistence,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stourton- 
Chepe  accompanied  the  engaged  couple,  and  when  at 
length  Saturday  morning  dawned,  it  seemed  to  Dorothy 
incredible  that  this  should  be  indeed  her  wedding  day. 

Not  once  had  she  allowed  the  Hon.  Darcy  to  be  alone 
with  her  from  the  moment  when  he  had,  on  receipt  of 
Jack  Wyverley's  message,  joined  her  on  the  sea  front 
and  heard  her  own  lips  confirm  her  acceptance  of  his 
offer.  Something  in  his  eyes  startled  and  embarrassed 
her,  making  her  dread  the  inevitable  moment  when  they 
two  should  be  left  alone  together.  Meantime  Mrs.  Stour- 
ton-Chepe  was  profuse  in  her  congratulations. 

"I  never  saw  a  man  so  madly  in  love  in  all  my  life," 
she  said.  "You  have  played  your  cards  very  well,  little 
girl.  That  stand-off  hauteur  of  yours  wouldn't  have 
done  with  everybody,  but  it  was  very  successful  in  Darcy's 
case.  Of  course,  he's  extremely  poor,  considering  his 
position.  But  I'm  told  there's  every  probability  of  his 
brother  dying  before  he  is  forty,  and  then  you  will  be 
Lady  Derrick." 

It  was  useless  to  tell  the  true  state  of  the  case  to  Mrs. 
Stourton-Chepe.  Old  Marmaduke  Strutt,  the  melan- 
choly, low  comedian,  was  the  only  member  of  the  com- 
pany who  guessed  Miss  Knight's  real  motive  in  marrying 
her  manager.  When  Marmaduke  congratulated  her,  she 
looked  him  straight  in  the  face,  while  tears  gathered  in 
her  eyes. 

"Mr.  Derrick  has  been  very  kind  and  generous,"  she 
said ;  "but  if  I  had  not  made  such  a  terrible  failure,  or  if 
I  were  alone  in  the  world,  I  would  not  do  it." 

She  could  not  write  and  tell  her  sister  that  she  was 
going  to  be  married  to  a  man  whose  name  she  had  hardly 


The  Blow  Falls.  181 

yet  mentioned.  It  would  seem  a  reproach  and  a  bitter 
reminder  to  her,  Dorothy  thought,  in  Phyllis'  neglected 
and  forsaken  condition.  So  she  merely  told  her  that  she 
was  going  to  Penzance,  and  that  there  was  now  no  more 
need  for  worrying  about  money,  as  she  had  accepted  an- 
other engagement  which  would  last  a  long  time. 

"And  so,  as  you  want  change,  dear,"  Dorothy  wrote, 
"and  Nurse  Rose  tells  me  in  her  letters  that  you  will 
be  able  to  travel  next  week,  I  want  you  to  come  under 
her  care  to  some  nice,  bright  rooms  I  have  taken  for  you 
opposite1  the  sea  here,  and  to  wait  in  Plymouth  until  I 
come  back  to  you,  in  a  very  few  days'  time.  I  am  sending 
twenty  pounds  instead  of  five  this  week,  for  I  shall  have 
plenty  of  money  in  my  new  engagement,  and  you  are  to 
have  just  everything  you  want,  my  darling." 

But,  although  she  wrote  so  brightly  and  appeared  quite 
cheerful  and  interested  while  shopping  in  the  town  with 
.  Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe,  there  were  moments — many,  many 
moments — when  Dorothy  felt  she  would  give  ten  years  of 
her  life  to  retract  her  promise,  and  be  free  again.  Now 
and  then  some  look  of  this  flashed  into  her  eyes,  and  was 
legible  there  even  to  the  hard-voiced,  worldly  woman  who 
was  her  constant  companion  during  those  last  two  days 
before  the  wedding. 

"I  do  believe,"  Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe  exclaimed  once  in 
a  low  voice,  suddenly  laying  her  hand  on  Dorothy's  in 
a  glove-shop  while  the  attendant  was  looking  for  some- 
thing on  the  shelves,  "I  do  believe  you  are  really  in  love 
with  some  one  else  all  the  time." 

Dorothy  blushed. 

"I  once  met  a  man  I  think  I  could  have  loved,"  she 
said. 

"Nothing  more  than  that?" 

"Nothing  more." 

"Oh,  well,  of  course  we  have  all  of  us  married  women 


182  The  Blow  Falls. 

met  men  we  could  have  loved  better  than  our  husbands," 
observed  the  elder  lady,  philosophically.  "The  great 
thing  is  to  meet  them  before  and  not  after  marriage.  Pas- 
sionate love  wears  off  in  a  week  or  two  in  any  case,  and 
it  is  really  not  well  bred  for  a  young  girl  to  be  in  love 
with  any  man  before  she  marries  him.  There  is  a  great 
deal  too  much  silly  nonsense  written  about  falling  in 
love,  where  we  English  women  are  concerned,  at  least. 
Of  course,  a  poetic  and  emotional  creature  like  poor,  dear 
Darcy,  without  one  drop  of  Anglo-Saxon  blood  in  his 
veins,  goes  to  the  maddest  extremes  of  emotion.  But 
nineteen  out  of  every  twenty  properly  brought-up  young 
English  women  marry  because  they  are  uncomfortable  at 
home,  or  because  they're  afraid  of  being  old  maids,  or 
because  they  would  like  a  house  of  their  own,  and  ser- 
vants to  bully,  or  because  they  want  money.  The 
twentieth  marries  because  she  loves  the  man,  and  in  those 
cases  he  generally  gets  tired  first  and  neglects  her,  be- 
cause he  is  too  sure  of  her,  and  her  jealousy  worries  him. 
Your  attitude  of  polite  friendliness,  and  a  sort  of  appre- 
ciative liking,  is  the  right  one  for  a  bride,  take  my  word 
for  it." 

Yet,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Stourton-Chepe's  approbation  and 
encouragement,  Dorothy,  on  the  eve  of  her  wedding,  was 
thoroughly  unhappy.  For  several  hours  after  retiring 
supperless  to  her  room  she  lay  on  her  bed  fully  dressed, 
face  downward,  burying  her  cheeks  in  a  pillow  soaked 
with  tears.  Once  or  twice  she  even  started  up  with  the 
crazy  idea  of  dashing  off  somewhere — anywhere,  where 
the  Hon.  Darcy  would  not  be  able  to  find  her  for  the 
ceremony  of  the  following  day. 

It  was  the  remembrance  of  the  money  which  Darcy  had 
given  her  to  send  to  Phyllis  which  restrained  her. 

"He  has  bought  me,"  she  whispered  to  herself  in  a  fit 
of  passionate  weeping.    "It  is  cruel  and  cowardly  of  him ! 


The  Blow  Falls.  183 

He  knows  quite  well  I  can't  love  him,  and  when  he  looks 
at  me  in  that  horrible,  snake-like  way,  as  if  he  were  going 
to  spring  at  me,  I  absolutely  hate  him!  And  yet  he 
forces  me  to  marry  him  for  Phyllis'  sake.  It  is  cruel 
and  mean !" 

But  in  the  morning  an  apathy  which  was  akin  to  resig- 
nation took  the  place  of  the  night's  excitement.  She  was 
to  be  married  from  the  hotel  where  Lady  Derrick  was 
staying,  Darcy's  mother  having  arrived  in  Plymouth  for 
the  ceremony  in  the  afternoon  of  the  preceding  day,  and 
at  about  one  o'clock  Dorothy  proceeded  to  the  hotel  in 
a  cab  and  made  her  way  upstairs  to  Lady  Derrick's  rooms. 

Miss  Knight  was  entering  into  the  married  state  with- 
out love  and  with  considerable  trepidation,  but  she  was 
a  woman,  and  a  very  womanly  one,  and  no  woman  can 
get  married  without  a  little  excitement  and  a  natural 
desire  to  look  her  best. 

Owing  to  the  recent  death  of  Darcy's  father,  the  cere- 
mony was  to  be  strictly  private,  only  the  Stourton-Chepes, 
Mr.  Wyverley  and  Mr.  Coles  having  been  invited  to  the 
church.  But  in  a  simply-cut,  white  serge  traveling  cos- 
tume, with  fine  lace  ruffles  at  the  neck  and  wrists,  a  little 
silver  embroidery  on  the  vest,  and  a  tiny  white  bonnet 
crowning  her  bright  hair,  Dorothy,  pale,  with  bright, 
frightened  eyes,  looked  beautiful  enough  to  justify  any 
infatuation. 

Lady  Derrick  was,  as  Dorothy  expected  she  would  be, 
all  tears  and  effusion. 

Dorothy  would  be  good  to  her  darling  boy,  she  knew. 
His  devotion  to  her  had  been  so  wonderful  and  had 
lasted  so  long  a  time — Lady  Derrick  was  clearly  surprised 
at  this — but  with  a  poetic  nature  such  as  his,  unlimited 
sympathy  and  tenderness  was  necessary,  and  Lady  Der- 
rick hoped  her  dear  Dorothy  would  be  ready  to  humor 
and  study  his  peculiar  temperament. 


184  The  Blow  Falls. 

In  similar  discourse  and  much  shedding  of  tears 
Darcy's  mother  beguiled  the  time  until,  at  two  o'clock, 
the  Stourton-Chepes  arrived,  and  all  four  proceeded  to 
the  church  where  the  ceremony  was  to  be  performed. 

In  after  life  the  scene  would  often  pass  again  before 
Dorothy's  eyes  as  a  dream,  and  not  as  any  waking  ex- 
perience. Lady  Derrick,  pale,  stout  and  tearful,  in  her 
crepe-trimmed  gown,  drying  her  eyes  with  a  black-edged 
lawn  pocket  handkerchief,  and  supported  by  Mrs.  Stour- 
ton-Chepe,  in  her  best  gray  silk  gown — Mrs.  Stourton- 
Chepe,  whose  hard  face  took  on  a  look  that  was  almost 
regretful  when  her  eyes  rested  upon  the  bride. 

Mr.  Wyverley,  Mr.  Coles  and  Mr.  Stourton-Chepe 
stood  close  to  the  altar  rails,  looking  very  much  alike  in 
their  regulation  tall  hats,  frock  coats,  gray  trousers,  light 
gloves  and  white  "button-holes" — well  groomed,  well 
bred,  fresh  colored  and  expressionless.  Dorothy  caught 
herself  reflecting  that  Mr.  Coles'  single  eyeglass  came 
as  a  boon  to  enable  his  friends  to  distinguish  him  among 
other  young  men. 

The  Hon.  Darcy  himself  was  lividly  pale ;  his  hand,  as 
it  touched  that  of  his  bride's,  was  cold  and  clammy,  and 
the  contact  sent  a  chill  through  her.  Was  it  the  light 
from  the  stained-glass  window,  she  wondered,  as  she 
glanced  quickly  up  into  her  bridegroom's  face,  that  spread 
so  deathly  a  hue  over  his  features  and  lit  his  eyes  with 
so  strange  a  fire? 

Wyverley  was  watching  him,  too,  and  wondering 
whether  the  fellow  would  be  able  to  get  through  the 
service  after  the  repeated  brandies  and  sodas  he  had  that 
morning  drained  to  "pull  himself  together."  He  had 
looked,  as  Wyverley  phrased  it,  "more  like  going  to  his 
funeral  than  his  wedding"  an  hour  before — a  helpless, 
nerveless,  shivering  wreck,  and  even  now  Wyverley  feared 
lest  at  any  moment  he  might  break  down. 


The  Blow  Falls.  185 

Wyverley  could  have  wished  also  that  the  bride  would 
have  looked  more  self-conscious  and  blushing,  and  like 
an  ordinary  bride.  That  calm  of  hers  had  something 
sacrificial  in  it,  and  one  quick,  strained  look  she  gave 
round  the  church  on  entering  set  him  thinking  of  the 
eyes  of  a  trapped  bird. 

Darcy's  voice,  when  he  spoke  the  responses,  was  low 
and  thick ;  that  of  the  bride,  on  the  other  hand,  was  clear 
and  sweet. 

She  took  her  part  in  the  marriage  service  with  mechan- 
ical correctness,  hardly  noting  its  progress,  so  strong  was 
the  reaction  after  the  excitement  and  fatigue  of  the  pre- 
ceding days,  and  so  determined  the  self-control  by  which 
she  concealed  her  real  feelings. 

In  the  same  passive  fashion  she  endured  the  congratu- 
lations and  handshakings  immediately  after  the  ceremony 
and  the  little  natural  subdued  chatter  and  laughter  during 
the  signing  in  the  registry.  She  was  glad  that  the  drive 
back  to  the  hotel  was  so  short,  and  that  the  streets  were 
full  of  people.  Darcy  was  by  her  side — so  close  to  her 
that  she  could  feel  his  hot  breath  upon  her  ear  and  cheek 
— and  she  felt  thankful  that  at  least  he  could  not  kiss 
her  yet. 

Once  at  the  hotel  the  bridegroom  seemed  restlessly 
eager  to  be  off  again  to  the  station.  He  had  the  tickets 
to  take,  he  urged,  and  they  must  be  at  the  station  fully  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  train  started,  and  he  seemed 
absolutely  disappointed  when  his  best  man  produced  two 
first-class  single  tickets  to  Penzance,  and  informed  him 
that  he  had  already  interviewed  the  guard  and  secured  a 
compartment  for  the  bridal  pair. 

At  the  last  the  leave-takings  were  hurried.  Dorothy 
cut  the  cake,  and  the  four  guests  and  Lady  Derrick  tasted 
it,  while  Darcy  drained  several  glasses  of  champagne. 

Then  the  bride  hurried  away  to  change,  with  the  help 


186  The  Blow  Falls. 

of  Lady  Derrick's  maid,  her  white  bonnet  for  a  shady 
straw  hat,  trimmed  with  white  roses,  which,  with  a  long, 
fawn-colored  dust  cloak,  took  away  the  bridal  appearance 
from  her  costume. 

On  her  return  to  the  sitting-room,  she  found  Darcy 
in  a  state  of  intense  excitement  and  impatience  to  be 
gone. 

He  hardly  gave  her  time  to  say  farewell  to  those  as- 
sembled before,  drawing  her  arm  through  his,  he  made 
her  almost  run  down  the  hotel  stairs  and  past  the  grinning 
and  bowing  waiters  and  hotel  servants  into  the  open  car- 
riage which  was  waiting  to  take  them  to  the  station. 

Something  very  like  a  curse  escaped  his  lips  as  a  few 
grains  of  a  well  directed  shower  of  rice  trickled  down 
his  neck  from  the  open  window  of  his  mother's  sitting- 
room. 

He  had  been  biting  his  lips  until  they  were  cut  through 
and  marked  with  blood.  Dorothy  noted  this,  and  instinc- 
tively drew  away  from  him. 

"We  don't  get  to  Penzance  until  nearly  seven  o'clock," 
he  whispered,  "and  from  here  we  have  an  uninterrupted 
run  until  we  reach  Liskeard  at  4:32.  So  at  last  I  shall 
have  three-quarters  of  an  hour  in  which  to  tell  you  I  love 
you.  Oh,  I  am  so  sick  of  all  the  vulgar  fuss  and  show 
and  flummery,  the  publicity,  the  paganism,  of  a  modern 
wedding ! 

"Does  it  all  jar  upon  you  as  upon  me?  It  is  so  hope- 
lessly bourgeois  and  crude,  this  daylight  dressing  up 
before  hordes  of  leering  strangers !  How  much  sweeter 
it  would  have  been  to  tap  at  your  window  one  night,  and 
hold  out  my  arms  for  you  to  come  down  into  them  and 
nestle  against  my  heart,  and  then  to  steal  away  under 
cover  of  the  darkness  to  some  quiet  spot  where  no  one 
knew  us  and  we  knew  no  one  1  Don't  you  feel  that,  too, 
my  Dorothy,  my  wife?" 


The  Blow  Falls.  187 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  not  romantic,"  she  returned  with  a 
nervous  laugh.  She  was  trying  to  fight  down  her  sick 
dread  of  that  long  railway  journey,  shut  in  with  this 
man  with  the  hot  breath  and  shining  eyes,  whose  property 
she  had  now  become. 

The  carriage  stopped  at  the  station,  and  her  husband 
helped  her  to  alight.  Their  luggage  was  already  in  the 
train,  thanks  to  Jack  Wyverley,  who  alone  had  been  per- 
mitted by  Darcy  to  precede  them  at  the  station.  There 
were  a  good  many  people  on  the  platform,  and  notably  a 
large  contingent  from  a  burlesque  company  playing  at 
Devonport,  and  over  for  the  day.  It  had  got  about  that 
there  was  a  bridal  pair  going  by  the  train  for  Penzance, 
and  that  Miss  Knight  and  "Mr.  Darcy"  of  the  "Love's 
Right"  Company  were  the  bride  and  bridegroom. 

Considerable  interest  was  in  consequence  taken  in  the 
handsome  young  couple  by  the  loiterers  on  the  platform, 
an  interest  which  Darcy  strongly  resented,  and  which 
he  tried  to  evade  by  hurrying  Dorothy  into  the  compart- 
ment reserved  for  them  and  pulling  the  blinds  sharply 
down. 

Unfortunately  for  his  plans,  he  had  not  been  quite  suf- 
ficiently expeditious  in  his  movements  to  elude  the  sharp 
eyes  of  a  little,  over-dressed  woman,  with  straw-colored 
hair  and  heavily-blackened  eyes,  who  suddenly  pressed 
forward  as  he  was  drawing  up  the  window  of  the  car- 
riage and  thrust  in  her  ungloved  and  beringed  right 
hand. 

"Why,  if  it  isn't  Cupid — Cupid  Trevelyan — that  we've 
all  lost  sight  of  for  months  past !  No  good  your  altering 
the  color  of  your  hair  and  shaving  off  your  fine  mustache, 
Sergius,  my  boy !  I  should  know  you  anywhere.  Do 
you  mean  to  pretend  not  to  recognize  me — Leila  Mont- 
gomery, of  the  'Settled  for  Life'  Company?  It's  too  thin, 
that's  what  it  is!    And  I  do  declare,  you  have  Miss 


188  The  Blow  Falls. 

Knight  in  there  with  you!  How  do  you  do,  my  dear? 
My!  You  do  look  pretty!  So  your  beau's  done  the 
honest  thing  by  you,  now  he's  free,  and  married  you  all 
right  for  the  second  time  ?  I  didn't  think  he  had  so  much 
good  in  him ;  I  didn't,  indeed.  Well,  ta-ta,  both  of  you ! 
The  train's  moving  off,  and  I  wish  you  a  happy  second 
honeymoon !" 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE    TRUTH    AT    LAST. 

The  train  began  to  move  slowly  out  of  the  station. 

Darcy  left  the  window,  and,  throwing  himself  into  a 
corner  seat,  glanced  across  at  Dorothy.  Her  features 
looked  white  and  hard,  as  though  carved  in  stone,  and  her 
distended  eyes  were  fixed  upon  his  face. 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  busied  himself  placing  it  in 
the  rack.  Then  he  passed  his  handkerchief  over  his 
brow  and  upper  lip,  which  had  become  suddenly  moist. 

"I  am  sorry,  my  dear  one,"  he  began,  "that  our  tour 
should  have  started  with  so  unpleasant  an  incident  as  that 
dreadful  little  painted  person,  whom  I  need  hardly  tell 
you  I  have  never  seen  before,  should  mistake  me  for 
Sergius  Trevelyan.  I  suppose  she  detected  in  him  some 
slight  resemblance  to  my  mother's  family.  I  remember 
the  agent  Whitlock  thought  I  was  rather  like  the  fellow 
when  I  first  called  at  his  office." 

Dorothy  did  not  speak,  although  he  paused  as  if  expect- 
ing her  to  do  so.  She  remained  staring  at  him  in  just 
the  same  attitude  as  before,  with  her  hands  tightly  clasped 
in  her  lap. 

"It  was  odd  that  she  should  make  a  mistake  about  you, 
too,"  he  went  on  presently.  "I  should  not  have  thought 
from  your  portraits  that  you  and  your  sister  were  so 
much  alike  as  all  that.  But  I  should  say  Miss  Mount- 
Graham,  or  whatever  she  called  herself,  had  been  lunching 
too  freely;  don't  you  think  so,  too?" 

Still  no  answer.    His  face  grew  wet  again,  and  his 


190  The  Truth  at  Last. 

heart  was  thumping  hard.  Some  other  emotion  had  for 
the  moment  driven  passion  from  his  mind ;  but,  glancing 
across  at  Dorothy  and  seeing  how  still  she  sat,  he  re- 
solved to  disregard  that  ominous  quiet  of  hers,  and,  cross- 
ing to  where  she  sat,  he  threw  his  arms  about  her  and 
tried  to  draw  her  to  him. 

"At  last  we  are  alone!"  he  murmured.  "My  bride, 
my  wife!" 

"Wait!"  she  cried,  as,  exerting  all  her  strength,  she 
thrust  him  from  her.  "Wait !  Sit  over  there,  just  oppo- 
site, that  I  may  see  your  face.  And  now  tell  me — what 
did  that  woman  mean?" 

"Why,  what  silly  idea  have  you  got  in  your  head? 
Just  because  a  little,  half-tipsy  actress  mistakes  us  both 
for  other  people.  Didn't  you  see  her  flushed  face  ?  She 
wasn't  sober,  and  had  no  notion  of  what  she  was  say- 
ing  " 

"I  did  not  see  her  face,  but  I  saw  yours.  And  yours 
looked  guilty!" 

She  breathed  rather  than  spoke  the  last  word.  Her 
throat  was  parched  and  dry,  and  an  awful  fear  seemed 
to  pull  at  her  heart.  It  was  not  possible;  it  was  too 
horrible !  The  thought  was  a  grotesque  nightmare — and 
yet — and  yet  it  was  fear  she  had  read  upon  Darcy  Der- 
rick's face  while  that  w,oman  spoke  to  him ! 

He  had  taken  the  seat  facing  her  as  she  had  bidden 
him,  half  laughing  and  trying  to  carry  the  thing  off  in 
a  light-hearted  and  indulgent  fashion,  conscious  all  the 
time  of  the  unwavering  stare  of  her  gray  eyes.  He  bent 
over  now  and  tried  to  take  her  hands. 

"Of  course,  I  was  afraid,"  he  said.  "I  am  so  madly 
in  love  with  you  that  for  the  past  thirty  or  forty  hours 
I've  been  distracted  with  fear  lest  anything  or  any  one 
should  come  between  us.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to 
love  as  I  love  you.     But  I  shall  try  to  teach  you." 


The  Truth  at  Last.  191 

Again  he  stretched  his  arms  out  toward  her,  and  again 
she  pushed  him  from  her,  this  time  roughly,  desperately. 

She  was  thinking  hard  all  the  time  as  she  sat  there 
silent.  She  was  recalling  the  picture  her  sister's  words 
had  painted  of  Sergius  Trevelyan,  the  soft-voiced,  sym- 
pathetic, poetry-loving  Adonis,  and  details  she  had  for- 
gotten sprang  with  sudden  clearness  into  her  mind — 
Trevelyan's  hints  as  to  his  noble  origin  and  banishment 
from  his  rightful  position,  his  half-Italian,  half-Irish  ex- 
traction, his  soft,  musical  voice,  his  large,  blue  eyes,  with 
their  long,  curled  lashes,  his  delicate,  white  hands. 

She  sprang  from  her  seat  with  a  loud  cry. 

"Good  heavens !    You  are  Sergius  Trevelyan !" 

Dead  silence  for  a  few  seconds  while  bride  and  bride- 
groom faced  each  other,  and  only  the  noise  of  the  hurry- 
ing train  dinned  in  their  ears — the  train  which  was  bear- 
ing them  away  to  begin  their  married  life  together. 

There  had  been  no  questioning  note  in  Dorothy's  cry. 
It  breathed  the  fullest,  the  most  hideous,  conviction.  As 
a  lightning  flash  suddenly  illumines  a  hidden  horror,  the 
truth  had  appeared  before  her.  She  needed  no  further 
corroboration;  and  Darcy  knew  this,  and  in  the  silence 
was  planning  how  to  meet  the  situation. 

Before  she  could  divine  his  intentions,  he  was  on  his 
knees  and  at  her  feet,  lividly  pale  and  shaking  with  ex- 
citement, while  he  clutched  at  her  gown  as  though  begging 
for  mercy. 

"Listen !"  he  cried  in  a  choked  voice.  "Dorothy,  don't 
hate  me !  You  can't  hate  me  when  you  know  everything. 
After  all,  I  haven't  deceived  you  much.  I  am  Darcy 
Derrick;  you  know  my  real  position,  my  mother,  my 
friends.  You  are  my  wife,  and  I  worship  the  ground 
you  walk  on.  Don't  tear  yourself  away  from  me,  Doro- 
thy, for  mercy's  sake!    Think,  dear,  how  I  love  you! 


192  The  Truth  at  Last. 

You  never  asked  me  if  I  were  Sergius  Trevelyan;  you 
wouldn't  have  married  me  if  you  had  known ;  and  I  had  to 
marry  you — I  couldn't  live  without  you !  From  the  mo- 
ment when  I  first  sav:  your  portrait,  nearly  a  year  ago, 
I  knew,  I  felt,  that  you  would  belong  to  me  some  day; 
that  you  were  the  one  woman  in  the  world  for  me,  and 
must  be  mine.  Ah,  don't  look  at  me  in  that  hard.,  stony 
way !  What  was  that  other  woman  that  she  should  come 
between  us?  All  I  cared  for  in  her  was  her  resemblance 
to  you.  I  used  to  sit  and  stare  at  your  picture,  and  hang 
over  it  and  kiss  and  fondle  it  hour  after  hour,  and  I 
would  kiss  her,  too,  because  her  mouth  was  like  yours, 
though  not  half  so  beautiful.  She  was  as  moonlight  com- 
pared unto  sunlight,  and  water  unto  wine,  compared  with 
you.  She  was  dying  for  love  of  me,  and  lonely  and  miser- 
able, and  I  took  pity  upon  her ;  but  I  have  forgotten  her 
long  ago,  as  a  man  forgets  a  partner  with  whom  he  has 
danced  away  a  stray  half  hour.  Dorothy,  you  have  never 
loved  yet;  you  don't  know  what  love  means.  We  must 
both  forget  the  past;  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  us  or 
with  our  future  life.  You  are  mine  now ;  it  is  Fate ;  you 
\«ere  meant  for  me  from  the  beginning,  you  and  your 
shining  eyes  and  sunny  hair  and  rose-pink  skin  and  sweet, 
white  neck — what  wouldn't  I  have  done  to  gain  you? 
For  telling  a  few  paltry,  little  lies  you  must  forgive  me — 
why,  I  would  risk  death  itself  in  any  dreadful  form  to 
have  you  mine  for  half  an  hour.  And  now  you  are  mine 
for  life!" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  as  he  spoke  and  tried  to  fold  her 
in  his  arms  where  she  sat,  white  and  rigid  with  horror 
which  seemed  to  turn  her  dumb.  But  as  she  felt  his  em- 
brace about  her,  disgust  at  his  touch  brought  her  back  to 
life,  and  with  all  her  strength,  which  was  considerable  for 
a  woman,  she  flung  off  his  enfolding  arms. 

"You  are  mad!"  she  whispered,  staring  at  him  under 


The  Truth  at  Last.  193 

frowning  brows.  "A  mischievous,  mad  beast !  If  I  were 
not  sure  that  you  are  mad  I  would  kill  you !" 

"You  shall  kill  me  if  you  like.  I  am  yours  to  do  what 
you  will  with.  But  I  am  only  mad  with  love  for  you, 
Dorothy.  Otherwise,  I  am  as  sane  as  you  are.  Now  sit 
down  quietly,  darling,  and  listen  to  me.  I  will  promise, 
if  you  like,  not  to  touch  you  until  we  have  talked  this  thing 
out — though  you  will  have  to  get  used  to  my  touch  soon, 
and  will  grow  to  love  it.  There,  I  will  sit  right  over  in  the 
opposite  corner.  Before  the  train  stops  we  must  come  to 
an  understanding." 

She  sat  crouched  in  her  corner,  watching  him.  Deadly 
hate  and  horror  such  as  she  might  have  felt  against  some 
poisonous  snake,  fastened  her  fascinated  gaze  upon  him. 
To  her  his  beautifully  moulded,  boyish-looking  face  was 
the  most  hideous  thing  she  had  ever  gazed  upon,  and 
each  movement  of  his  slender  hands  filled  her  with  a  sick 
repulsion.  She  knew  now  why  her  woman's  instinct,  that 
sure  guide  and  protector  given  to  her  sex,  had  repeatedly 
warned  her  against  this  man,  prompting  her  to  disbelieve 
in  his  apparent  kindness  and  generosity,  to  resent  his 
touch,  and  to  shrink  from  the  love  in  his  eyes.  This  was 
the  heartless  villain  who  had  broken  Phyllis'  heart,  ruined 
her  life,  and  left  her  to  starve ;  even  now  she  might  well 
die  and  he  would  be  her  murderer.  Dorothy  had  to  dig 
her  nails  into  the  palms  of  her  hands  at  the  thought,  so 
passionately  strong  did  the  impulse  rise  within  her  to 
fasten  her  fingers  in  that  man's  throat  and  force  the  craven 
life  out  of  him. 

"We  must  look  at  things  as  a  man  and  woman  of  the 
world,"  he  began  in  those  slow,  musical  tones  of  his,  which 
poor  Phyllis  had  so  much  loved.  "Owing  to  my  father's 
unnatural  conduct  against  me,  for  more  than  seven  years, 
ever  since  I  was  four-and-twenty,  I  have  had  to  lead  a 
dog's  life,  utterly  unsuited  to  a  man  of  my  birth  and  breed- 


194  The  Truth  at  Last. 

ing,  herding  with  actors  and  singers  and  that  sort  of  Bo- 
hemian nobody,  afraid  to  use  my  own  name,  and  compelled 
even  to  disguise  my  appearance,  to  stain  my  hair  dark 
with  cosmetics,  and  use  other  theatrical  tricks  to  elude 
duns  and  writs  and  other  things  even  worse.  My  mother 
— the  only  person  in  this  world  who  really  understands  me 
— gave  out  that  I  was  living  abroad,  but  on  the  death  of 
my  father,  who  was  my  worst  enemy  and  persecutor,  I 
was  able  to  come  out  of  my  obscurity  and  claim  acquaint- 
ance with  my  friends  and  equals.  As  to  the  twenty-five 
thousand  pounds,  I  must  own  to  you,  my  dear  girl,  that 
we  shan't  have  very  much  of  that.  Just  about  five  or  six 
thousand  I  may  manage  to  snatch  from  creditors'  jaws, 
but  not  more.  You  see,  I've  dropped  a  good  many  hun- 
dreds over  this  tour,  but  as  it  won  you  for  me,  you  may 
well  believe  that  I  don't  grudge  it." 

She  did  not  speak.  He  asked  her  permission  to  smoke, 
and  rolled  and  lit  a  cigarette  with  fingers  that  shook  a 
little  while  he  proceeded  to  the  second  part  of  his  dis- 
course. 

"When  fate  threw  us  together  in  Whitlock's  office  I 
knew  you  would  be  mine.  It  was  only  a  question  of  time. 
Your  sister's  infatuation  for  me  never  moved  me  like  your 
indifference.  I  have  been  so  much  loved  by  women  that 
coldness  fascinates  me.  Your  very  hatred  of  Sergius  Tre- 
velyan  made  you  more  attractive.  To  see  you  turn  pale 
with  the  strength  of  your  dislike  against  him  while  you 
spoke  to  me  stimulated  my  passion  and  thrilled  me  with 
excitement.  I  knew  that  you  would  love  me,  that  you 
would  not  be  able  to  resist  my  love,  and  I  looked 
eagerly  forward  to  the  moment  when,  folded  in  my  arms, 
you  would  hear  my  confession  and  kiss  away  my  self- 
accusing  words.  You  learned  my  secret  too  soon,  but 
sooner  or  later  you  would  have  to  know  it,  for  I  never 
meant  to  meet  your  sister.     I  am  sorry,  very  sorry,  for 


The  Truth  at  Last.  195 

her;  but  I  do  not  wish  ever  to  see  her  again — nor  will 
you,  I  am  sure,  desire  that  I  should  do  so.  Of  course,  she 
will  never  know  that  the  man  she,  poor  soul,  loved  so 
madly  is  her  sister's  husband.  There  is  no  need  for  any 
one  to  know  that.  Not  one  person  in  the  'Love's  Right' 
company  ever  suspected  it,  and  that  woman  at  the  station 
would  never  have  recognized  me  but  that  she  was  once 
very  much  in  love  with  me,  and  jealousy  gave  her  intui- 
tion. My  friends  and  equals  don't  know  what  became  of 
me  all  those  years ;  even  my  mother  hardly  ever  knew  any- 
thing of  my  movements ;  and  as  to  Sergius  Trevelyan,  we 
can  forget  him  altogether,  or  suppose  him  to  be  still  in  that 
charming  health  resort,  Carthage, -in  Texas,  from  which 
you  may  remember  my  college  friend  wrote  to  tell  me  he 
had  seen  him  pass  through  with  a  theatrical  company  play- 
ing in  'Madame  Angot.' " 

The  Hon.  Darcy  smiled  at  this  point.  Clearly,  he  was 
proud  of  his  own  cleverness  in  that  matter  of  the  letter. 

"I  happened  to  have  a  piece  of  the  Grand  Hotel,  Carth- 
age, note  paper  left,  among  other  mementos  of  an  ex- 
tended pilgrimage  in  the  States  three  years  ago,"  he  said, 
while  he  lighted  his  cigarette,  "so  as  I  knew  you  would  be 
worrying  for  news  of  my  friend  Sergius,  I  wrote  that  let- 
ter to  myself  to  allay  your  natural  anxiety.  I  don't  at- 
tempt to  defend  my  action,  except  by  the  old  adage,  that 
all  is  fair  in  love.  I  had  to  get  you  somehow,  and  I  used, 
and  would  use  again,  any  and  every  means  within  my 
reach.  Love  such  as  mine  for  you  is  the  greatest  motive 
power  in  the  world.  Wherever  you  are  I  must  follow; 
your  presence  intoxicates  me ;  your  touch,  even  in  cold 
friendliness,  sends  mc  mad ! 

"You  need  never  be  jealous  of  your  sister;  the  affection 
which  I  gave  to  her  was  prompted  by  pity,  but  chiefly  by 
her  likeness  to  you,  and,  once  possessing  the  original,  I 
shall  never  hanker  after  the  pale  and  faded  copy.     Long 


196  The  Truth  at  Last. 

before  I  left  the  company  on  learning  of  my  father's  fatal 
illness  I  had  wearied  of  her,  and  I  have  the  strongest  pos- 
sible wish  and  determination  never  to  see  her  again.  It 
was  not  my  fault  that  she  loved  me  so  much  and  that  she 
cannot  forget  me.  I  will  do  my  best  to  help  you  to  pro- 
vide for  her  somewhere,  though,  of  course,  that  mar- 
riage settlement  will  be  waste  paper  until  my  brother  has 
the  decency  to  die ;  but  she  has  passed  out  of  my  life  once 
and  for  all,  and  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  the  past  doesn't 
exist.     Life  is  all  the  future — a  future  with  you." 

He  seemed  to  have  talked  himself  into  a  state  of  entire 
calmness  and  self-control,  and  even  to  look  more  or  less 
happy  and  pleased  with  himself,  as  a  man  who,  in  the  face 
of  great  difficulties,  has  attained  a  much-desired  object. 

"So  now,"  he  went  on  again  after  a  pause,  "that,  like  a 
good  husband,  I  have  made  a  clean  breast  of  everything, 
you  will  begin  to  understand  me  better.  As  I  have  al- 
lowed nothing  to  stop  me  in  my  determination  to  win  you, 
so  I  shall  stop  at  nothing  in  my  resolve  to  keep  you.  The 
dead  past  must  bury  its  dead;  you  are  my  wife — that  is 
enough  for  me." 

"You  forget,"  she  said  at  last,  in  sharp,  metallic  tones, 
"one  important  point  in  your  vile,  mad  schemes.  I  am 
nothing  more  to  you,  thank  heaven !  than  any  stranger  in 
the  street,  for  your  wife,  Millie  Clements,  is  alive." 

"My  wife,  Millie  Clements,  died  in  New  York  just  three 
months  ago.  You  can  have  convincing  legal  proof  on  that 
point.  There  is  no  woman  alive  who  can  dispute  your 
right  to  call  yourself  my  wife,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Darcy  Der- 
rick." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  HONEYMOON  JOURNEY. 

A  sense  of  impotent  failure  overwhelmed  Dorothy's 
mind. 

She  had  set  out  two  months  ago,  intent  upon  the  dis- 
covery and  punishment  of  her  sister's  betrayer,  and  now, 
by  her  very  desire  to  serve  Phyllis  and  to  provide  for  her 
future,  she  herself  had  fallen  into  his  clutches.  The  gro- 
tesque irony  of  the  thing  almost  inclined  her  to  hysterical 
laughter;  it  seemed  too  preposterous  to  be  taken  seriously 
that  she  should  have  become  the  legal  wife  of  the  man  who 
had  posed  as  Sergius  Trevelyan. 

But  as  the  facts  of  the  case  were  gradually  driven  into 
her  mind,  a  strange  fear  crept  over  her,  the  fear  not  of 
Darcy,  but  of  herself.  The  knowledge  of  her  sister's 
cruel  wrongs  and  of  the  hideous  deceptions  which  had 
been  practiced  upon  Phyllis  and  herself  by  this  smiling, 
white-handed  man  who  sat  there,  complacently  rolling  and 
smoking  cigarettes  in  the  opposite  corner  of  the  compart- 
ment, swelled  her  heart  with  a  mad  rage  of  which  she  had 
never  before  deemed  herself  capable. 

She  knew  that  Darcy  meant,  in  spite  of  all  that  had 
been  revealed,  in  spite  of  her  horror  and  loathing,  in  spite 
of  his  past  relations  v/ith  her  sister,  to  assert  over  her  his 
right  as  a  husband  to  kiss  and  caress  her  at  his  will.  She 
knew  that  he  loved  her  as  such  a  man  understands  love, 
and  she  knew,  too,  with  an  intensity  of  conviction,  that  at 
his  touch  a  very  devil  of  hate  would  spring  up  within  her 
and  lend  a  murderous  strength  to  her  resistance. 


198  The  Honeymoon  Journey. 

At  every  moment  that  they  were  alone  together  the  pas- 
sionate desire  to  kill  him  grew  stronger.  Her  teeth  were 
tightly  set  and  her  fingers  clenched.  She  dared  no  longer 
look  at  him  lest  she  should  fly  at  his  throat.  Gradually 
the  speed  of  the  train  was  slackening.  In  a  few  minutes 
they  would  reach  Liskeard  and  then  she  would  escape, 
how  and  where  she  knew  not.  She  cared  little  in  what 
direction  her  steps  might  lead  her,  so  that  she  were  freed 
from  the  presence  of  this  man  and  from  that  gnawing 
temptation  to  kill  him,  and  by  one  act  revenge  her  sister 
and  regain  her  liberty. 

He  was  speaking  again,  and  at  each  word  every  nerve 
in  her  body  tingled  with  detestation  and  disgust. 

"In  a  few  minutes  we  shall  stop  at  Liskeard,  dearest, 
and  before  then  we  must  be  friends.  There  are  no  secrets 
between  us  now.  It's  useless  to  fight  against  fate.  The 
world,  the  law,  the  Church,  everything  is  on  my  side.  On 
yours,  only  a  silly  prejudice,  a  silly  jealousy  about  your 
sister.  We  have  buried  Sergius  Trevelyan  and  his  name 
shall  never  be  mentioned  between  us  again.  Your  part  in 
life  is  to  be  worshipped  and  learn  to  love  me  back.  And 
now,  my  bride,  I  have  waited  long  enough;  I  must  kiss 
your  sweet  lips  for  the  first  time." 

He  began  to  move  toward  her.  She  held  up  her  hand 
forbiddingly. 

"I  warn  you,"  she  said  in  a  low,  strangled  voice,  "that 
if  you  touch  me  I  shall  kill  you !" 

He  laughed  and  made  a  sudden  spring  in  her  direction. 
But  her  fingers  were  on  the  handle  of  the  door  and  in  an 
instant  she  had  flung  it  open. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  he  asked,  taken  aback  by 
the  suddenness  of  the  movement. 

She  did  not  speak.  She  stood  holding  on  to  the  side  of 
the  door,  watching  bim.  Never,  he  thought,  had  she 
looked  so  handsome.    The  whole  character  of  her  face 


The  Honeymoon  Journey.  199 

had  changed,  and  instead  of  innocent  English  fairness  it 
was  the  dangerous  beauty  of  a  pythoness  that  lurked  in 
her  clenched  teeth,  white  cheeks  and  burning  eyes. 

"You  lovely  demon !"  he  whispered  with  an  unpleasant 
laugh.  "Do  you  suppose  that  you  can  frighten  me?  I 
was  never  afraid  of  a  woman  yet,  and  I  am  your  husband." 

As  the  words  passed  his  lips  by  an  agile  spring  for- 
ward he  seized  the  hanging  strap  of  the  open  window  and 
drew  the  door  to.  But  before  he  could  turn  the  handle 
Dorothy's  fingers  closed  upon  it,  as  she  strove  with  both 
hands  to  force  the  door  open. 

For  a  few  seconds  they  struggled  in  silence ;  then,  sud- 
denly releasing  her  hands,  which  still  clung  to  the  door 
handle,  Darcy  clasped  his  arms  round  her  waist  with  a 
trumphant  laugh. 

"You  little  fool !"  he  said  in  her  ear.  "You  don't  sup- 
pose I  am  going  to  let  you  give  me  the  slip  now !" 

Without  attempting  to  resist,  she  let  him  disengage  her 
hands  and  draw  them  up  round  his  neck;  the  door  was 
still  unfastened,  and  she  knew  quite  well  what  she  meant 
to  do.  She  saw  his  face,  flushed  and  excited,  come  nearer 
and  nearer  to  hers ;  she  felt  his  panting  breath  upon  her 
face,  and  saw  that  over-red  mouth  she  so  hated  bend  close 
over  her  own ;  then,  with  all  her  force,  she  suddenly  swung 
round,  changing  places  with  him,  so  that  he  and  not  she 
was  against  the  door. 

He  divined  her  intention,  and  reached  forward  with  a 
muttered  oath,  as  though  he  meant  to  strike  her.  Again 
she  flung  him  from  her,  and  this  time  he  slipped,  missed 
his  footing,  fell  back  against  the  open  door,  and  with  a 
quick  cry  threw  up  his  hands  and  was  hurled  backward 
from  the  moving  train. 

Dorothy  drew  a  long  breath  and  sat  down,  pressing  her 
hand  against  her  heart,  which  had  almost  ceased  to  beat 
in  the  intensity  of  her  excitement.     She  experienced  no 


200  The  Honeymoon  Journey. 

touch  of  contrition  for  what  she  had  done.  If  Darcy  were 
dead,  so  much  the  better  for  the  world ;  he  was  not  fit  to 
live.  Her  mood  was  such  that  she  could  have  knelt  down 
and  thanked  heaven  for  delivering  her  from  the  hand  of 
her  enemy,  and  so  great  was  her  relief  at  being  rid  of  the 
odium  of  his  presence  that  a  sensation  of  absolute  gladness 
crept  over  her  heart. 

She  went  to  the  window,  carefully  fastened  the  door  and 
looked  out.  The  train  at  this  point  ran  along  the  top  of 
an  embankment,  the  steep,  grass-covered  sides  of  which 
were  bordered  by  a  wood  forming  part  of  a  nobleman's 
estate.  Dorothy  wondered  whether  the  fall  would  kill 
Darcy.  Here  and  there  big  stones  peeped  out ;  would  he 
strike  his  head  against  these?  She  would  like  to  have 
been  sure  that  he  was  dead  and  incapable  of  working  any 
further  mischief.  Supposing  that  he  were  merely  stunned 
or  slightly  injured,  it  would  be  some  time,  surely,  before 
he  could  make  his  way  to  Liskeard ;  time  enough,  she 
trusted,  would  be  given  to  make  good  her  escape  to  Lon- 
don. 

"But  I  hope  and  pray  that  he  is  dead !"  she  whispered. 

She  was  conscious  of  no  impiety  in  the  thought.  In 
hating  him  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  hating  an  em- 
bodiment of  all  the  evil  and  wickedness;  the  treachery, 
falsehood,  cruelty  and  vice  that  live  in  the  hearts  of  men. 
It  never  for  a  moment  occurred  to  her  to  regard  him  in 
any  different  light  because  of  the  ceremony  into  which  she 
had  been  tricked  in  the  morning.  To  consider  him  as  her 
husband  or  in  any  way  related  to  her  never  once  came 
into  her  mind.  But  at  the  thought  of  his  mother,  a  sud- 
den pity  softened  her  eyes. 

"Poor  woman!  If  he  is  dead  I  am  so  sorry  for  her. 
But  how  terrible  to  love  so  vile  a  thing  I" 

She  was  still  standing  by  the  window  as  Liskeard  was 
reached.     Before  the  train  stopped  alongside  of  the  plat- 


The  Honeymoon  Journey.  201 

form  she  quickly  drew  down  all  the  blinds,  then  seating 
herself  by  the  window  she  bent  her  head  forward  in  order 
to  give  any  passing  railway  official  the  impression  that 
she  was  listening  to  the  talk  of  some  one  facing  her. 
Then,  just  as  the  train  began  to  move  out  of  the  station, 
she  sprang  out  on  the  platform. 

"I  find  I  shall  have  to  go  back  to  London,  after  all," 
she  said  in  quiet,  composed  tones  to  the  porter  who  hur- 
ried up.    "How  soon  can  I  get  there  ?" 

"London?  There  is  no  train  to  London  but  the  night 
mail,  at  7.32,  miss,  and  it  don't  reach  Paddington  until 
four  in  the  morning." 

Dorothy  looked  at  the  station  clock.  It  was  ten  min- 
utes to  five.  Two  hours  and  forty  minutes  had  to  be 
passed  before  there  was  any  hope  of  leaving  Liskeard,  and 
all  her  life  through  she  had  reason  to  remember  those 
hours  of  waiting. 

Like  an  ugly  dream  it  all  seemed  when  she  afterward 
recalled  it — the  long  wandering  on  weary  feet  throughout 
a  stifling  summer  evening,  the  dull  market  town,  the 
rough  comment  of  the  miners'  wives  and  children  on  her 
smart  clothes  and  strange  appearance,  comments  which 
drove  her  out  past  the  gray  stone  houses  to  moorland  and 
fields,  beyond  which  the  outline  of  the  Carradon  Hills 
stood  out  dark  against  the  evening  sky. 

At  a  quarter  past  seven,  hot,  tired,  footsore  and  miser- 
able, she  crept  into  the  station,  took  her  ticket,  and  waited 
for  the  London  train.  Concerning  Darcy's  fate  she  knew 
and  heard  nothing,  and  not  a  sign  was  given  at  the  sta- 
tion to  lead  her  to  suppose  that  anything  unusual  had  oc- 
curred. No  one  expected  the  bridal  pair  at  Penzance, 
therefore  their  absence  might  not  be  noticed,  and,  in  any 
case,  the  mail  by  which  she  was  to  travel  to  London  would 
leave  Penzance  long  before  the  arrival  of  the  Plymouth 


202  The  Honeymoon  Journey. 

train.  Yet  a  touch  of  nervous  apprehension  made  her 
start  and  shiver  when  she  heard  the  rumble  of  the  distant 
wheels. 

She  was  traveling  third  class  now.  Her  white  dress 
and  long  cloak  were  gray  with  dust ;  extreme  pallor  and 
red,  swollen  eyelids  marred  her  beauty,  and  the  day's  ex- 
periences seemed  to  have  added  ten  years  to  her  appear- 
ance. Her  head  was  racked  with  pain,  so  that  she  scarcely 
dared  to  move  it.  Never  yet  through  the  past  years  of 
working  and  struggling  had  she  known  the  meaning  of 
despair.  Physical  fatigue  and  hunger,  of  which  she  be- 
came conscious  for  the  first  time,  accentuated  the  wret- 
chedness of  her  situation.  Her  long  wandering  in  the 
heat  under  great  stress  of  emotion  had  made  her  light- 
headed, for  as  soon  as  her  eyes  closed  in  a  half-sleep  she 
opened  them  with  a  start  and  a  scream,  fancying  that  in 
the  darkness  the  ghastly  face  of  Darcy  Derrick  stared 
upon  her  with  the  glaze  of  death  in  his  eyes. 

Fortunately  she  was  alone  in  the  compartment.  Rising 
and  thrusting  her  head  from  the  window,  she  discovered 
that  the  train  was  passing  over  the  identical  spot  at  which 
Darcy  had  fallen.  Had  he  been  still  alive,  he  would  have 
been  heard  of  at  Liskeard  station. 

"Will  they  say  I  am  a  murderess?"  she  asked  herself, 
dully,  as  she  pressed  her  aching  forehead  against  the  win- 
dow-frame and  let  the  evening  breeze  blow  in  her  face. 
"I  certainly  opened  the  door  and  thrust  him  from  me  to- 
ward it,  and  I  hoped  he  would  fall  out.  And  I  hope  he  is 
dead.  That  is  being  a  murderess,  I  suppose,  and  yet  I 
can't  feel  a  bit  wicked  about  it.  The  callous,  heartless, 
mad  villain !  He  deserved  the  tortures  of  the  Inquisition, 
not  such  an  easy  death  as  falling  out  of  a  train  in  motion. 
I  would  have  died  a  thousand  times  over  rather  than  be 
degraded  by  his  touch.  But  oh,  Phyllis!  Phyllis! 
What  can  I  tell  you  when  I  am  home  again?" 


The  Honeymoon  Journey.  203 

Exhaustion  was  merged  at  length  in  sleep,  broken  only 
by  fitful  moments  of  waking  when  the  train  stopped  at  in- 
tervening stations  on  the  way  to  London,  and  before  the 
great  city  was  awake,  after  waiting  for  more  than  an 
hour  at  Paddington  station,  lest  she  should  startle  the  little 
household  at  Lockhart  Cottages  by  a  too  early  arrival, 
Dorothy  made  her  way  toward  home. 

So  passed  the  wedding  night  of  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Darcy 
Derrick.  And  how  her  bridegroom  passed  his,  Dorothy 
learned  four  days  later,  when  in  a  London  daily  paper 
her  eyes  fell  on  the  following  item  under  the  heading : 

A  Missing  Bride. 

A  mysterious  affair  is  reported  from  Liskeard.  A 
gamekeeper  in  the  employ  of  Lord  Trevorlyn  in  the  early 
morning  of  Thursday  had  his  attention  drawn  by  his  dog 
to  the  body  of  a  well-dressed  man  lying  under  a  hedge  at 
the  base  of  the  railway  embankment.  On  examination, 
the  gamekeeper  discovered  that  the  man  was  not  dead  or 
even  seriously  injured,  but  only  a  good  deal  bruised  and 
shaken,  having  lain  there  in  a  stunned  condition  for  fully 
twelve  hours.  On  being  assisted  to  a  house  and  attended 
by  a  doctor,  the  extraordinary  fact  was  elicited  that  the 
gentleman,  who  is  stated  to  be  of  high  social  position,  but 
who  is  desirous  of  having  his  name  kept  out  of  the  affair, 
was  on  his  honeymoon  journey  to  Penzance  when,  just 
as  the  train  slowed  down  before  Liskeard,  a  quarrel 
arose  between  him  and  his  newly-married  bride,  who,  in  a 
fit  of  violent  jealousy,  endeavored  to  throw  herself  out  of 
the  train.  In  trying  to  stop  her,  her  husband  missed  his 
footing  and  fell,  stunning  himself  with  coming  in  contact 
with  a  stone  in  the  steep  descent.  The  strangest  part  of 
the  occurrence  is  that  the  bride  has  disappeared,  leaving 
no  trace.  It  is,  however,  supposed  that  she  has  returned 
to  her  friends,  who  will,  no  doubt,  persuade  her  to  go 


204  The  Honeymoon  Journey. 

back  to  her  husband,  who,  it  is  said,  is  willing  and  eager 
to  forgive  her." 

On  the  following  morning  No.  4  Lockhart  Cottages 
was  empty  and  deserted,  and  a  board  advertising  that  the 
house  was  "to  be  let,  furnished,"  stood  by  the  garden  gate. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A  SHADOW  ON  THE  WINDOW. 

Fully  four  months  after  their  sudden  and  mysterious 
"flitting,"  on  a  bitterly  cold  night  in  early  January,  the 
three  women  who  formed  the  household  of  4  Lockhart 
Cottages,  crept  back  into  their  former  home  like  mice  to 
their  hole. 

For  the  one  quarter  Dorothy  had  been  fortunate  enough 
to  let  the  place  furnished,  while  she  and  Phyllis  had  re- 
mained in  hiding  at  the  house  of  a  widowed  sister  of  Cres- 
well,  who  kept  a  tiny  shop  at  Acton.  But  Phyllis  was 
restless  and  longed  to  be  back  in  their  old  home,  and  Doro- 
thy, extremely  anxious  about  her  sister's  health,  wished 
to  be  near  Dr.  Morgan.  Then,  too,  Creswell  and  her 
widowed  sister  constantly  quarreled.  The  old  servant, 
who  was  all  unselfishness  and  devotion  to  her  young  mis- 
tress, was  totally  unable  to  get  on  with  her  own  relations, 
who  considered  her  "crabbed"  and  "faddy."  A  piece  of 
luck,  also,  which  had  fallen  in  Dorothy's  way,  drew  her 
back  to  the  neighborhood  of  the  Hammersmith  road.  An 
advertisement  brought  her  into  communication  with  an 
elderly  lady  writer,  whose  sight  was  bad  and  who  required 
an  amanuensis  for  several  hours  every  evening,  and  as  this 
person  lived  in  one  of  the  immense  blocks  of  red  brick 
flats  contiguous  to  Lockhart  Cottages  and  was  prepared 
to  pay  twenty-five  shillings  a  week  for  a  secretary's  ser- 
vice, Dorothy  decided  that,  considering  all  the  circum- 
stances, it  was  time  for  them  to  make  a  move  back  to  the 


206  A  Shadow  on  the  Window. 

cottage,  which  had  been  empty  since  the  Christmas  quar- 
ter. 

A  little  discreet  "pumping"  the  next  morning  revealed 
the  fact  that  a  handsome  young  gentleman,  very  well 
dressed,  had  hung  about  the  place  immediately  after  their 
departure,  and  had  made  endless  inquiries  of  the  neigh- 
bors concerning  the  whereabouts  of  the  Misses  Knight. 

He  had  even  gone  the  length  of  calling  for  the  key  of 
the  cottage  on  the  landlord,  who  kept  a  shop  in  the  Ham- 
mersmith road,  and  coming  with  him  to  view  the  place, 
asking  questions  all  the  time. 

Dorothy  shivered  at  the  thought  that  their  little  home 
had  been  degraded  by  that  man's  evil  presence;  but  she 
had  foreseen  some  such  move  on  the  part  of  the  Hon. 
Darcy,  and  had  primed  the  landlord  with  the  intelligence 
that  his  former  lodgers  had  "gone  abroad  to  reside  with 
some  relatives,  and  that  they  did  not  propose  ever  to  re- 
turn to  England." 

Having  thus,  as  she  supposed,  permanently  put  him  off 
the  scent,  she  sincerely  hoped  that  the  Hon.  Darcy  would 
transfer  his  violent  and  evanescent  passion  for  her  to  some 
other  woman  and  trouble  her  no  more. 

Of  that  terrible  honeymoon  journey  she  could  not  bear 
to  think,  although  it  was  sometimes  forced  before  her  in 
her  dreams.  Then,  in  an  ecstasy  of  fear  and  hate,  she 
would  fancy  she  saw  Darcy 's  pale  face  bending  over  hers 
in  possessive  triumph,  or  staring  up  at  her  with  death  in 
his  glazing  eyes,  and  she  would  wake,  sobbing  and  scream- 
ing like  a  frightened  child.  Her  own  part  in  the  adven- 
ture she  especially  dreaded  to  recall.  The  capability  for 
passionate,  murderous  hate  which  she  clearly  possessed, 
alarmed  and  troubled  her.  While  she  shrank  from  dwell- 
ing upon  this  portion  of  her  experience,  she  found  herself 
making  mental  excuses  for  murderers  and  all  such  per- 
sons as  were  accused  of  crimes  of  violence. 


A  Shadow  on  the  Window.  207 

Her  father  had  been  an  extravagant,  passionate  man, 
who,  in  a  fit  of  despair  had  shot  himself;  her  mother,  a 
foolish,  impulsive  creature,  who  had  died  from  a  chill 
caught  by  her  own  imprudence;  and  Shafto,  their  only 
son,  was  an  admitted  failure,  intolerant  in  temper,  rebel- 
lious against  all  constituted  authority,  a  man  who  had  dis- 
appeared from  respectable  society  fully  seven  years  ago. 

"We  come  of  a  bad  stock,"  Dorothy  reflected.  "And  I 
myself  shall  most  certainly  kill  Darcy  Derrick  if  he  forces 
his  way  again  into  my  life  or  Phyllis'.  I  feel  my  teeth 
clench  and  my  fists  curl  up  at  the  mere  thought  of  him, 
and  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  a  very  demon  of  hate  would, 
I  know,  take  possession  of  me.  That  is  the  part  I  can't 
understand,  for  I  have  never  willingly  hurt  anything  alive. 
But  I  hate  him  all  the  more  for  making  me  feel  so  hate- 
ful!" 

Dorothy's  mind  was  essentially  feminine,  strong  in  in- 
tuition and  weak  in  reason,  and  one  of  her  distinguishing 
characteristics  was  a  lofty  disregard  for  the  letter  of  the 
law.  She  had  her  own  religion,  and  her  own  standard — 
in  many  ways  a  very  high  one — of  right  and  wrong ;  but 
no  possible  course  of  reasoning  could  induce  in  her  a  re- 
spect for  the  majesty  of  the  law,  and  the  fact  that  she  was 
legally  Darcy  Derrick's  wife  troubled  her  very  little  when 
once  she  thought  herself  secure  from  his  interference, 
after  throwing  her  wedding  ring  out  of  the  window  of  the 
train  on  her  way  back  to  town. 

That  Darcy  should  claim  her  as  his  wife  would  ever 
appear  to  her  an  unnatural  horror.  In  Dorothy's  eyes  he 
was  her  sister  Phyllis'  husband.  He  had  deceived,  dis- 
owned and  deserted  her,  and  broken  her  heart;  but  in 
Dorothy's  eyes  he  was  Phyllis'  husband,  whatever  the  law 
had  to  say  on  the  subject. 

Meantime,  it  was  painfully  evident  that,  married  or 
single,  Phyllis  would  never  again  be  her  old  bright  self. 


208  A  Shadow  on  the  Window. 

Thin  to  emaciation,  anaemic  and  nerveless,  she  lay  all  day 
on  a  sofa  drawn  close  to  the  sitting-room  fire,  reading,  or 
pretending  to  read,  the  novels  with  which  Dorothy  kept 
her  supplied.  Constant  neuralgia  and  sleeplessness  had 
begun  to  turn  her  hair  gray,  and,  weeping  bitter  tears  over 
her  lost  beauty,  poor  Phyllis  went  back  to  her  golden  hair- 
dye,  which  lent  to  her  pallid  cheeks  and  great,  sunken, 
black-fringed  eyes  a  peculiarly  haggard  and  witch-like 
look.  Often  now  in  the  evenings,  when  Dorothy,  after  a 
long  day  at  painting  small  oil  panels  by  the  dozen,  started 
for  her  night  work  at  secretaryship,  Phyllis  would  rise 
from  her  couch  and  would  stealthily  creep  from  the  cot- 
tage, returning  in  about  half-an-hour's  time  with  dilated 
eyes  and  cheeks  that  were  faintly  flushed,  to  throw  her- 
self upon  the  sofa  and  fall  into  a  heavy  sleep. 

Her  temper,  formerly  sweet  if  a  little  capricious,  grew 
daily  more  capricious  and  fretful.  Unlike  Dorothy  in 
this,  as  in  so  many  other  things,  Phyllis  had  what  is  called 
"no  resources  in  herself."  Lacking  amusement,  excite- 
ment and  admiration,  she  had  been  subject  to  fits  of  in- 
tense depression  even  in  past  days  of  perfect  physical 
health ;  but  now  that  she  was  far  too  weak  and  ill  to  act, 
and  could  only  brood  over  her  ruined  life  and  cruel 
wrongs,  her  melancholy  became  intensified  until  it  bor- 
dered on  insanity. 

Dorothy  understood  her  sister  with  the  intuition  of  per- 
fect love  and  sympathy.  Phyllis  had  always  been  a  little 
selfish  and  dependent  upon  others,  and  these  qualities  had 
become  confirmed  in  her  by  Dorothy's  entire  unselfishness, 
as  well  as  by  her  superior  energy  and  intelligence. 
Throughout  the  chilly  autumn  and  the  fogs  of  early  win- 
ter, Dorothy  had  worked  from  daybreak  until  bedtime, 
giving  lessons  in  music  and  French  and  drawing  to  the 
children  of  Acton  tradespeople,  tinting  photographs,  trac- 
ing designs  for  fancy  work,  or  copying  manuscripts,  until, 


A  Shadow  on  the  Window.  209 

with  swimming  eyes  and  aching  brain,  she  would  fall 
asleep  over  her  work. 

Never  once  did  she  complain,  never  once  did  she  let 
herself  break  down.  Her  heart  was  so  torn  with  remorse 
for  the  terrible  mistake  she  had  made  in  her  desire  to 
serve  her  sister  that  she  seemed  unable  to  do  enough  for 
Phyllis  in  order  to  atone  by  her  devotion  for  the  miserable 
failure  of  her  mission. 

But  of  all  that  had  befallen  Dorothy  during  her  two 
months'  absence  Phyllis  knew  absolutely  nothing.  Some- 
times she  tortured  her  sister  by  talking  about  Sergius 
Trevelyan;  but  this  was  chiefly  after  sleeplessness  and 
neuralgia  had  clouded  her  brain,  making  her  chatter  of 
the  past  in  a  rapid  and  disconnected  fashion.  Her  health 
was  permanently  broken,  and  Dorothy's  heart  seemed  to 
contract  in  a  very  agony  of  pity  as  she  watched  her  be- 
loved sister  grow  daily  thinner  and  paler,  more  silent  and 
more  sad. 

There  was  no  little  luxury  which  Dorothy,  by  her  un- 
wearying devotion,  did  not  contrive  to  provide  for  the  in- 
valid. Wine,  fresh  fruit  and  flowers,  nourishing  soups 
and  tonics,  the  best  medical  advice;  all  of  these  things 
were  obtained  for  Phyllis.  Dorothy  herself  went  under- 
fed and  ill-clad,  and  even  poor  Cresswell,  who  was  a  soft- 
hearted and  selfless  creature,  existed  chiefly  on  scraps  of 
bread  and  cheese  and  potatoes,  eaten  at  odd  moments  in 
the  pantry ;  but  Phyllis'  appetite  had  to  be  tempted,  and 
for  Phyllis  nothing  was  too  dainty  or  too  dear. 

"You  two  are  starving  yourselves  for  me,"  Phyllis  sud- 
denly exclaimed  one  cold  afternoon  in  the  last  week  of 
February.  "I  know  now,  Dolly,  why  you  pretend  to  have 
your  dinner  out ;  it  is  so  that  I  shan't  see  how  little  you 
have  to  eat,  while  I  am  finding  fault  with  the  soups,  and 
jellies,  and  birds  you  buy  for  me.  Cresswell,  you  know 
what  I  say  is  true.     I've  seen  you  look  quite  pinched  with 


210  A  Shadow  on  the  Window. 

hunger  on  cold  mornings.    How  selfish,  how  wickedly 
selfish,  I  have  been  to  allow  it!" 

Cresswell's  apron  was  at  her  eyes  in  a  moment. 

"It  isn't  me,  Miss  Phyllis,  you  ought  to  scold,"  she 
whimpered,  "It's  Miss  Dorothy.  Her  boots  are  letting 
the  snow  in,  and  she  won't  eat  nothing  but  dry  bread  when 
she  comes  home  at  half-past  ten,  when  you're  in  bed ;  and 
even  after  that  sometimes  she  sits  up  painting.  Oh,  it 
breaks  my  heart,  that  it  does,  to  see  you  two  that  I've  seen 
grow  up  in  a  great  beautiful  house  and  treated  like  young 
princesses,  come  down  to  work  and  starve  like  this !  To 
think  that  I  should  remember  you  both,  with  your  beauti- 
ful curly  hair  all  combed  and  shining,  driving  off  to  the 
park  every  day  with  your  poor  mamma,  and  now  her  to 
be  dead,  and  Miss  Phyllis  so  ill,  and  Miss  Dorothy  work- 
ing herself  to  death — oh,  it's  more  than  a  body  can  bear !" 

"Don't  cry,  you  silly  old  thing,  and  don't  chatter !"  ex- 
claimed Dorothy,  starting  up  from  her  painting  and  giv- 
ing an  affectionate  hug  to  Cresswell,  before  she  gently 
pushed  her  from  the  room.  Tears  were  in  Dorothy's  eyes, 
too,  and  a  lump  had  risen  in  her  throat.  She  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  poor  old  Cresswell  going  without  her  din- 
ner and  perhaps  even  stinting  herself  in  her  favorite  bev- 
erage, strong  tea,  thick  and  black  as  treacle.  But  she 
brushed  her  tears  away  before  coming  over  to  kneel  by  her 
sister's  couch. 

"Now,  what  put  such  an  idea  into  your  dear  silly  head  ?" 
she  asked  brightly.  "Do  I  look  as  if  I  were  starved? 
Why,  I  was  never  in  better  health  in  my  life.  And  you, 
my  darling,  as  soon  as  the  weather  gets  a  little  bit  warmer, 
you  will  feel  so  much  stronger  and  happier.  I  will  see  if 
we  can't  manage  to  get  away  to  the  sea  for  a  few  days  at 
Easter " 

Phyllis  caught  her  sister's  hands  within  her  thin  fingers 
and  drew  them  against  her  heart. 


A  Shadow  on  the  Window.  211 

"Don't  dear!"  she  whispered.  "Don't  make  plans  for 
the  future  with  me  in  them.  And  don't  go  without  things 
any  more  that  I  may  have  them.  I  have  been  thinking 
only  about  myself  and  my  sorrows  and  disappointments 
for  a  long  time.  But  last  night  as  I  lay  awake,  I  seemed 
suddenly  to  see  things  as  they  are,  and  I  left  off  crying 
for  myself  to  think  about  you.  I  know  I  have  been  dread- 
ful in  my  temper  lately,  and  have  seemed  ungrateful  and 
unloving,  but  you  don't  know  how  difficult  it  is  to  be  pa- 
tient under  that  worrying  pain  in  my  head. 

"And  there  is  another  reason  why  I  have  been  irritable 
— a  secret  I  have  to  confess  to  you,  Dolly.  For  weeks 
past,  when  you  have  had  to  leave  me  in  the  evenings  and 
I  couldn't  sleep,  I  hated  to  think,  I  have  every  now  and 
then  slipped  out  and  bought  some  laudanum,  a  very  little 
at  a  time,  from  one  or  two  different  chemists,  and  I  have 
mixed  it  in  some  port  and  drunk  it  off,  and  for  two  or 
three  hours  I  have  been  able  to  sleep.  Even  when  I  woke 
the  pain  seemed  dulled,  but  all  day  long  I  have  found  my- 
self growing  more  nervous,  irritable  and  disagreeable. 
There,  now  I  have  confessed,  Dolly  dear;  and  you  can 
prevent  me  from  ever  doing  it  again  and  take  away  the 
store  of  laudanum  I  have  by  me.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of 
deceiving  you  when  you  are  half-killing  yourself  working 
for  me.  But  do  remember  I  am  not  strong  like  you, 
strong  in  character  and  in  mind,  I  mean.  I  can't  bear 
pain,  or  loneliness,  or  dullness,  or  horrid  thoughts;  and 
losing  my  prettiness  makes  me  so  miserable.  And — Ser- 
gius  must  be  fearfully  wicked,  I  knOw — but  do  you  think 
he  would  come  and  see  me  if  he  knew  that  I  am  dying?" 

Tears  were  rolling  down  Dorothy's  face  as  she  raised  it 
to  her  sister's. 

"Don't  think  of  him,  my  dearest,"  she  murmured  in  a 
half-strangled  voice,  "I  told  you  of  the  letter  I  saw — say- 
ing that  he  was  in  America — don't  you  remember?" 


212  A  Shadow  on  the  Window. 

"But  that  was  six  months  ago,"  said  Phyllis,  shaking 
her  head.  "I  can't  help  thinking  that  he  is  in  England 
now.  When  I  die,  you  must  not  put  'Phyllis  Knight'  on 
my  grave.  You  must  remember  that  I  have  been  his  wife, 
and  everybody  knows  it,  not  only  you  and  Cress  well,  but 
Nurse  Rose  and  Dr.  Morgan,  and  those  theatrical  people, 
and  the  people  living  about  here.  You  must  call  me  the 
wife  of — ah !  how  stupid !  I  can't  be  Mrs.  Sergius  Tre- 
velyan,  for  he  told  me  that  was  an  assumed  name.  Oh,  I 
wish  I  knew  his  real  name !" 

"His  name,"  said  Dorothy,  suddenly,  "is  the  Hon.  Dar- 
cy  Derrick." 

She  could  never  tell  by  what  impulse  the  words  slipped 
out.  Something  in  her  sister's  half-delirious  anxiety  hurt 
her,  so  that  she  was  forced  into  saying  what  she  knew. 
Phyllis  raised  herself  on  her  arm  and  stared  at  her  curi- 
ously. 

"How  did  you  find  that  out?"  she  asked. 

"From  a  member  of  the  company  I  played  with.  But 
now,  darling,  leave  off  thinking  about  him  and  about 
death  and  dreadful  things.  And  tell  me,  does  Dr.  Mor- 
gan know  of  your  habit  of  taking  laudanum  ?" 

"Yes.  He  got  angry  about  it,  and  that's  why  I  won't 
see  him  now.  I  am  so  glad  I  told  you.  I  can't  bear  to 
think  of  there  being  secrets  between  us.  The  light's 
going  and  you  are  only  trying  your  eyes,  so  don't  go  back 
to  your  painting.  Stay  where  you  are,  until  you  start 
for  Arundel  Mansions,  with  your  hands  in  mine,  and  your 
head  on  the  cushion  near  me.  If  I  know  you  are  here  I 
believe  I  can  go  to  sleep,  just  as. I  used  to  when  we  were 
children  and  I  had  been  naughty  and  told  you  all  about  it, 
and  you  had  scolded  me  and  kissed  me  and  forgiven  me." 

With  motherly  tenderness  Dorothy  kissed  her,  and  re- 
mained kneeling  by  her  side  in  the  gathering  twilight. 
The  fire  touched  both  faces  with  a  rosy  outline,  bringing 


A  Shadow  on  the  Window.  213 

out  clearly  that  structural  likeness  which  in  the  light  of 
day  was  sometimes  lost.  Beautiful,  sensitive,  feminine 
faces,  full  of  capabilities  for  light-hearted  gaiety  and  ten- 
der love,  but  shadowed  in  the  forenoon  of  their  freshness 
by  anxiety  and  grief  and  ill-paid  work  and  wearing  pain. 

At  a  quarter  past  seven  Dorothy  gently  disengaged  her 
hands  from  her  sister's  clasp  and  rose  to  her  feet,  stiff  and 
cramped  from  remaining  in  one  position  so  long.  Phyllis 
was  sleeping  peacefully,  tears  on  her  long,  dark  eyelashes 
and  a  half-smile  on  her  lips.  Dorothy  crept  softly  about 
the  room,  arranging  her  sister's  medicine  and  books  and 
flowers  on  a  table  close  within  her  reach.  Then,  bend- 
ing once  more  over  Phyllis  to  listen  to  her  regular  breath- 
ing and  ascertain  that  she  wanted  nothing,  she  left  the 
room,  took  her  hat  and  jacket  from  the  hall  and  passed 
out  through  the  little  garden  gate  on  her  way  to  the  neigh- 
boring red  brick  blocks  called  Arundel  Mansions. 

Cresswell  locked  the  gate  after  her  young  mistress. 
Dorothy  was  most  particular  about  having  the  gate  kept 
securely  locked  at  all  hours  of  the  day.  Very  few  letters 
came  for  the  little  household,  so  that  when,  half  an  hour 
later,  the  postman,  after  knocking  at  the  door  of  a  neigh- 
boring cottage,  rang  three  times  with  some  impatience  at 
the  gate  of  No.  4,  Cresswell  experienced  a  feeling  of  natu- 
ral annoyance. 

"Why  can't  the  silly  fellow  drop  the  letter  into  the 
box?"  she  asked  herself  as  she  slowly  opened  the  front 
door  and  came  down  the  path  of  the  little  garden.  "Miss 
Dorothy  had  it  put  up  a-purpose." 

"Here,  I  can't  keep  waiting  all  night,"  the  postman  was 
saying.  "A  registered  letter  for  Miss  Dorothea  Knight, 
4  Lockhart  Cottages,  Hammersmith.  That's  right,  ain't 
it  ?    And  you've  got  to  sign  a  receipt." 

Cresswell  became,  as  she  herself  expressed  it,  "flus- 
tered."    She  fumbled  with  the  key  in  the  lock,  and  with 


214  A  Shadow  on  the  Window. 

her  spectacle-case  in  her  pocket.  Finally,  after  staring  at 
the  letter  and  turning  it  over  in  her  hand,  she  pottered 
back  to  the  house  with  it.  She  could  not  bear  to  wake 
Miss  Phyllis,  and  she  knew  Miss  Dorothy  would  be  vexed 
with  her  for  doing  so.  But  anything  in  the  way  of  cleri- 
cal labor  was  a  matter  of  extreme  difficulty  to  Cresswell, 
and  she  did  not  feel  equal  to  the  situation. 

So  she  stirred  the  fire  loudly,  and  when  Phyllis  awoke 
with  a  start  at  the  noise,  she  humbly  asked  her  if  she 
would  mind  signing  that  bit  of  paper  for  Miss  Dorothy. 

Phyllis  did  so,  and  examined  the  envelope  with  interest, 
while  Cresswell  returned  the  receipt  to  the  postman,  and 
wished  him  good-night,  forgetting,  in  her  excitement,  as 
she  had  often  before  forgotten,  to  lock  the  garden  gate. 

"I  feel  certain  it's  good  news,"  Phyllis  said,  as  the  old 
sevant  re-entered  the  sitting-room.  "Cresswell,  do  you 
believe  in  presentiments?  I  have  a  presentiment  that 
some  wonderful  good  fortune  is  coming  to  us  all,  and  that 
we  are  soon  to  throw  off  all  our  troubles  and  worries. 
Don't  ask  me  how  I  know!  I  feel  it  in  the  air.  Now, 
put  this  letter  right  in  the  middle  of  the  table  where  Doro- 
thy can't  fail  to  see  it  as  soon  as  she  comes  home,  and  then 
go  and  get  me  something  to  eat.  And  you  must  have 
something,  too,  with  me.  I  haven't  been  able  to  eat  all 
day,  but  now  I  am  suddenly  hungry.  I  am  sure  it  means 
that  something  strange  and  delightful  is  going  to  happen. 
Hurry  off,  Cresswell  dear,  and  you  and  I  will  have  a  little 
feast  together." 

The  old  servant  hurried  away,  Phyllis  moved  to  a  sit- 
ting position,  and  bent  her  eyes,  which  had  suddenly 
grown  bright  with  hope,  upon  the  glowing  coals.  The 
room  was  perfectly  still  and  quiet,  yet  gradually  a  con- 
viction crept  over  Phyllis  that  she  was  not  alone,  that 
some  one  was  near  her,  watching  her. 

At  first  she  remained  motionless,  her  heart  beating  with 


A  Shadow  on  the  Window.  215 

intermittent  violence.  Then  slowly  she  turned  her  head 
and  met,  as  she  knew  she  would  meet,  the  fixed  stare  of  a 
man  whose  face  was  pressed  close  against  the  window 
from  where  he  stood  in  the  garden  outside. 

The  light  was  almost  gone;  the  face  was  different  in 
many  ways  from  that  of  the  man  she  had  once  loved ;  but 
Phyllis  knew  him  in  a  moment. 

"Sergius !"  she  cried,  springing  to  her  feet,  and  sway- 
ing where  she  stood,  with  outstretched  arms.  "Sergius ! 
You  have  come  back !" 

Her  only  answer  was  the  sound  of  hurried  footsteps  in 
the  garden  path,  and  the  swing  of  the  gate  as  it  shut  be- 
hind him. 

The  man  was  gone. 

She  stood  rooted  to  the  spot.  She  longed  to  fly  after 
him,  to  call  his  name,  to  appeal  to  him,  perhaps  even,  so 
great  is  the  gentleness  of  women  who  have  loved,  to  par- 
don him.  But  she  could  not  move.  The  words  died  on 
her  cold  lips,  and  a  strange  dizziness  obscured  her  senses. 
She  had  forgotten  Sergius,  but  she  was  lonely,  and  cold, 
and  ill,  and  the  room  was  dark,  very  dark. 

At  last :  "Dorothy !"  rang  out  her  cry  in  a  wail  of  ap- 
pealing helplessness. 

And  at  the  cry  and  the  sound  of  a  heavy  fall,  Cresswell, 
hurrying  in,  found  Phyllis  stretched  on  the  floor  and 
across  the  fender,  with  the  blood  from  a  wound  in  her 
head,  where  she  had  struck  it  in  falling,  slowly  creeping 
like  a  red  snake  round  her  throat. 

She  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A   WIDOWER'S    I.KTTER. 

The  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick  was  destined  to  see  and  be 
seen  that  night  by  both  the  sister  into  whose  lives  he  had 
brought  so  much  perplexity  and  suffering. 

Seated  before  a  desk,  her  fair  head  bent  over  a  pile  of 
manuscript,  upon  which  she  was  busily  writing  from  dic- 
tation of  a  romance  of  the  high-flown  and  sickly  senti- 
mental order,  Dorothy  had  suddenly  put  down  her  pen 
and  raised  her  head  in  the  act  of  listening. 

"Lady  Madelaine  bent  her  proud,  white  neck  until  her 
soft  cheek  was  pillowed  on  Sir  Ughtred's  broad  shoulder," 
dictated  the  little,  old  lady  novelist. 

Mechanically  Dorothy  tok  up  her  pen,  but  she  wrote  not 
a  word. 

"You  are  not  attending,  Miss  Knight !"  exclaimed  her 
employer.     "Are  you  ill ?    What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

Dorothy  had  sprung  to  her  feet,  pale  and  trembling. 

"My  sister  wants  me !"  she  murmured.  "She  is  calling 
me!" 

"Even  if  she  is,  you  can't  possibly  hear  her  at  this  dis- 
tance." 

"I  can  hear  her  in  my  heart !  Please  excuse  me — I  am 
very  sorry — but  I  must  go  to  her!" 

And  swiftly,  before  the  indignant  little  old  lady  had 
time  to  interfere,  Miss  Knight  had  flung  down  her  pen, 
seized  her  hat  and  coat  and  darted  down  the  stairs  and 
out  at  the  entrance  door. 

Right  on  the  threshold  she  ran  into  a  man  who  was 
standing  there,  hailing  a  passing  hansom  cab. 


A  Widower's  Letter.  217 

It  was  Darcy  Derrick.  She  knew  him,  although  she 
never  paused  for  an  instant  in  her  flight,  and  although  his 
back  was  turned  toward  her.  She  did  not  need  his  cor- 
roborating cry  of  "Dorothy !"  as  he  recognized  her  flying 
figure  and  hurried  in  pursuit. 

Her  feet  seemed  to  have  wings.  In  a  very  few  seconds 
she  had  darted  through  the  garden  gate  of  her  home  and 
turned  the  key  in  the  lock  before  the  Hon.  Darcy  had  been 
able  to  reach  it.  Then,  with  a  terrible  fear  at  her  heart, 
she  entered  the  door  of  her  home. 

The  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick  hung  about  the  neighborhood 
of  Lockhart  Cottages  until  nearly  twelve  o'clock,  but  he 
caught  no  further  glimpse  of  either  sister  that  night. 
What  he  did  see  was  a  spare,  shabbily-dressed,  elderly 
woman,  who,  at  a  little  after  ten  o'clock,  let  herself  out  of 
the  house  and  the  garden  gate,  which  last  she  this  time  re- 
membered to  lock  after  her. 

The  house  of  a  certain  Dr.  Wentworth,  in  Kelman 
street,  was  Cresswell's  goal,  Dr.  Wentworth  having  at- 
tended Phyllis  on  two  occasions  since  the  latter  had 
quarreled  with  Dr.  Morgan.  Darcy  waited  until  Cress- 
well  had  rung  the  doctor's  bell,  and  then  crept  up  and 
loitered  near  the  door. 

"Is  Dr.  Wentworth  in?"  Cresswell  inquired,  and  then, 
before  the  servant  could  speak,  she  went  on  hurriedly: 
"Ask  him  to  come  at  once  without  losing  a  minute.  My 
mistress  is  dead,  I'm  afraid,  but  her  sister  won't  believe  it. 
For  nearly  two  hours  we've  been  trying  to  bring  her 
round." 

"If  you  step  inside  Dr.  Wentworth  will  see  you,"  the 
servant  said,  and  the  door  closed  upon  them. 

In  a  few  minutes  Darcy,  who  still  waited,  saw  Cress- 
well  come  out,  accompanied  by  the  doctor,  a  tall,  slight, 
light-haired  man  in  the  early  thirties.  He  seemed  to  be 
questioning  her  closely,  but  Cresswell's  answers   were 


218  A  Widower's  Letter. 

given  in  so  low  a  voice  and  were  so  broken  by  sobs  that 
Darcy  could  not  catch  their  import. 

Mr.  Derrick  was  in  a  state  of  the  keenest  excitement 
and  anxiety.  Was  it  possible,  he  asked  himself,  that 
either  Dorothy  or  Phyllis  could  really  be  dead,  just  now 
when  he  had  triumphantly  run  them  to  earth,  after  being 
thrown  off  the  scent  for  so  many  months  ?  There  was  no 
event  he  would  consider  more  wholly  desirable  than  the 
death  of  Phyllis,  against  whom  he  cherished  the  dull  dis- 
like which  some  men  feel  against  the  women  they  have 
most  deeply  injured.  But  the  possible  death  of  Dorothy 
was  a  very  different  matter,  and  at  the  mere  idea  of  such 
an  event  Darcy  trembled  from  head  to  foot.  The  feeling 
he  entertained  for  Dorothy,  which  he  was  pleased  to  call 
love,  was  as  strong  as,  if  not  stronger  than,  ever,  and 
many  events  had  occurred  since  that  honeymoon  journey 
to  render  a  reconciliation  with  her  not  only  desirable,  but 
of  vital  importance. 

The  one  and  only  obstacle  which  stood  in  the  way  of  his 
perfect  married  happiness  with  Dorothy  was,  so  Darcy  de- 
cided, the  existence  of  her  sister  Phyllis.  His  vanity  was 
so  inordinate  and  it  had  been  so  fostered  by  easy  con- 
quests among  women,  that  he  really  believed  he  could 
speedily  transform  Dorothy's  dislike  against  him,  which 
he  characterized  as  hysterical,  into  a  no  less  passionate 
regard,  and  he  was  as  inconsolable  for  her  loss  and  as 
strenuously  determined  to  regain  her  as  though  she  had 
been  the  most  devoted  of  wives. 

"After  all,"  he  told  himself,  as  he  waited  outside  the 
sister's  home  during  Dr.  Wentworth's  visit,  "it  cannot  be 
either  Dorothy  or  Phyllis  who  is  dead.  Three  hours  ago 
I  saw  them  both.  Phyllis  sprang  from  her  seat  in  de- 
light and  stretched  out  her  arms  at  sight  of  me,  and  Doro- 
thy darted  past  me  on  her  way  home.  They  were  both 
tall,  strong,  and  perfectly  healthy  women.     Doubtless  the 


A  Widower's  Letter.  219 

two  of  them  have  gone  on  talking  about  me  every  day  all 
these  months,  comparing  notes,  and  finding  out  just  in 
what  details  the  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick  resembled  and  dif- 
fered from  Sergius  Trevelyan.  But,  once  I  get  Dorothy 
back,  I  must  put  a  stop  to  these  meetings  and  get  rid  of 
Phyllis,  somehow.  Put  her  on  the  stage  again — that  will 
be  the  best  way — and  get  some  budding  tragedian  at 
thirty  shillings  a  week  to  marry  her  and  keep  her  quiet, 
mixing  his  grease-paints  and  darning  his  silk  tights. 
Then  my  beautiful  half-tamed  Dorothy  and  I  will  shake 
the  dust  of  sordid  England  off  our  feet  and  set  sail  for 
sunny  climes  together." 

Meantime,  Dr.  Wentworth,  after  a  visit  of  nearly  half 
an  hour's  duration,  came  at  length  from  his  patient's 
house,  followed  by  Cresswell,  who,  still  weeping,  fastened 
the  gate  after  him. 

"I  will  call  and  see  your  mistress  again  in  the  morning," 
were  his  parting  words  to  the  old  servant,  "and  you  must 
really  try  to  keep  up,  that  you  may  look  after  her." 

Darcy  heard,  and  was  relieved  in  mind.  Of  course,  the 
death  of  Phyllis  was  eminently  desirable ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  the  death  of  Dorothy  would  have  been  such  an  in- 
tolerable misfortune  that  it  was  better  that  both  sisters 
should  remain  alive. 

On  the  morrow  it  was  most  important  that  he  should 
see  Dorothy  as  early  as  possible,  and  with  this  end  in  view 
the  Hon.  Darcy  took  a  room  for  the  night  at  a  hotel  in  the 
Hammersmith  road,  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant 
from  Lockhart  Cottages. 

Before  eight  o'clock  on  the  following  Sunday  morning 
he  was  again  in  sight  of  the  little,  green  gate.  All  the 
blinds  of  the  house  were  down,  and  he  was  telling  him- 
self that  the  inmates  must  be  late  risers,  when  one  of  a 
group  of  women,  who  were  gathered  gossiping  round  the 
door  of  the  sweep's  house  opposite,  approached  him. 


220  A  Widower's  Letter. 

"Are  you  a-wanting  one  of  them  young  ladies  as  lives 
in  that  'ouse?"  she  inquired." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  bestowing  one  of  his  sweetest 
smiles  on  the  questioner.  She  was  forty-five  and  took  in 
washing,  but  she  colored  high  with  pleasure  and  drew 
down  her  rolled-up  sleeves.  "They  are  old  friends  and 
relatives  of  mine/'  he  went  on,  "and  I  am  anxious  to 
know  how  they  are." 

"I'm  afaraid  you've  come  at  a  bad  time,"  the  woman 
said ;  "one  of  the  young  ladies  died  suddenly  last  night,  so 
they're  saying." 

"One  of  them !  Which  one  ?"  he  faltered,  growing  pale 
to  the  lips. 

"Bless  me,  sir,  you  do  look  bad !  And  as  to  which  it  is, 
I  can't  rightly  say.  They're  that  alike  I  never  could  tell 
one  from  the  other,  and  though  they've  lived  here  a  good 
while  they've  been  so  quiet  and  so  kep'  themselves  to  them- 
selves you've  'ardly  known  they  was  there.  But  you  ring, 
sir,  and  ask  that  old  servant  of  theirs  what's  happened. 
She's  a  very  close,  stock-up,  old  body ;  but  in  the  case  of  a 
gentleman  like  you,  and  a  relative,  too,  she's  bound  to  tell 
you  the  truth." 

Darcy  thanked  her,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then, 
with  trembling  hand,  pulled  the  bell  by  the  gate  of  No.  4. 

There  was  a  delay  of  some  minutes  before  his  ring 
was  answered.  Dorothy's  eyes  had  fallen  on  him  from  an 
upper  window,  and  had  remained  fixed  upon  him  in  fas- 
cinated horror.  There  stood  her  sister's  murderer,  and 
on  the  bed,  by  which  she  herself  had  knelt  all  night  in  tear- 
less agony,  lay  his  victim,  with  quiet  face  and  still,  cold 
hands. 

Meeting  Darcy,  as  she  had  done,  close  to  the  cottage 
on  the  preceding  evening,  Dorothy  had  no  doubt  at  all 
that  it  was  the  shock  of  seeing  him  which  had  killed  her 
sister.    It  was  the  one  thing  needed  to  complete  the  full 


A  Widower's  Letter.  221 

sum  of  her  reckoning  against  him — a  score  which  he 
could  hardly  pay  with  his  life. 

"Oh,  heaven,  punish  him  for  me !"  burst  from  her  lips 
as  she  fell  on  her  knees  by  her  dead  sister's  feet.  "Punish 
him,  I  pray,  for  all  the  evil  that  he  did  against  my  poor, 
dead  darling!  Make  him  suffer  as  she  suffered,  make 
him  despised,  hated  and  known  for  the  thing  he  is !  And, 
above  all,  take  him  from  my  sight — let  me  not  see  him, 
lest  I  should  be  tempted  to  kill  him !" 

Passionate  tears  burst  from  her  eyes,  the  first  tears  she 
had  shed  since  that  terrible  home-coming  of  the  previous 
evening.  The  memory  of  her  sister's  ruined  life  and  the 
swift  tragedy  of  her  death  worked  like  madness  in  her 
brain.  If  heaven  were  just,  that  man  should  be  made  to 
suffer  for  his  sins,  and  yet  how  could  heaven  be  just  and 
Phyllis  be  dead  ? 

She  was  still  crouched  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  her  frame 
shaken  by  sobs,  when  Cresswell  entered  the  room. 

"There's  a  gentleman  ringing  at  the  gate,  Miss  Doro- 
thy," she  said  timidly.  "A  tall,  fair  young  gentleman. 
Am  I  to  answer  it?" 

"Yes !"  cried  Dorothy,  springing  up  with  a  fierce  light 
in  her  eyes.  "Go  to  the  gate,  and  if  he  questions  you, 
tell  him  that  his  wife  is  dead,  Mrs.  Darcy  Derrick." 

"Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying,  Miss?"  Cresswell 
asked,  frightened  by  Dorothy's  wild  looks.  "Poor  Miss 
Phyllis " 

"Was  Mrs.  Darcy  Derrick — that  man's  wife!  Go  and 
tell  him  that  she  is  dead !" 

Puzzled,  troubled,  and  very  ill  at  ease,  Cresswell  made 
her  way  to  the  gate.  Her  late  mistress  had,  so  she  knew, 
been  cruelly  deceived  and  deserted  by  some  desperately 
wicked  man.  But  Cresswell  had  understood  his  name 
to  be  Trevelyan,  and  now  that  this  other  name  was  sud- 
denly announced  to  her  for  the  first  time,  and  she  was 


222  A  Widower's  Letter. 

sent  to  face  the  villain  in  question,  her  knees  trembled 
with  alarm  and  indignation. 

Darcy  on  his  part  saw  a  little,  elderly  woman,  very  pale 
and  red-eyed,  but,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  of  set,  stern  cast 
of  features  and-  expression. 

"What  do  you  want  ?"  she  asked  sharply,  without  open- 
ing the  gate. 

"I  want  my  wife,"  he  answered  boldly.  "Mrs.  Darcy 
Derrick." 

"Your  wife,  Mrs.  Darcy  Derrick,  died  at  half-past 
eight  yesterday  evening,"  Cresswell  answered,  repeating 
the  words  as  a  lesson. 

Darcy 's  forehead  grew  wet  with  agitation  and  excite- 
ment. Twice  he  tried  to  speak,  but  his  throat  was  so 
dry  he  could  not  at  first  form  the  words. 

"It  is  impossible!"  burst  from  him  at  last.  "I  can't, 
I  won't,  believe  it!  I  can't  stand  talking  here  with  all 
these  people  about.  Let  me  in,  Cresswell ;  I  have  a  great 
deal  to  say  to  you.  I  know  all  about  you.  You  must  let 
me  in.     I  have  a  right  to  come." 

"I  know  nothing  about  that,  sir.  I  have  no  orders  to 
admit  you." 

"Did  Miss  Knight  send  you  to  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Look  here,  Cresswell,  I  don't  want  to  see  Miss  Knight. 
I  have  nothing  to  say  to  her.  But  you  must  let  me  see 
my  wife  or  I  will  never  believe  she  is  dead." 

"If  you  don't  believe  that  you  had  better  ask  the  doc- 
tor," retorted  Cresswell,  and  before  he  could  speak  again 
she  turned  her  back  on  him  and  regained  the  house. 

The  Hon.  Darcy  made  his  way  at  once  to  the  house  of 
Dr.  Wentworth,  but  the  doctor  being  out  on  his  rounds 
his  visitor  had  to  wait  two  hours  before  his  return.  In 
the  meantime  the  doctor  had  called  at  Lockhart  Cottages 
and  had  clearly  heard  there  something  unfavorable  to 


A  Widower's  Letter.  223 

Mr.  Darcy  Derrick,  for  he  greeted  the  latter  with  marked 
coldness,  and  did  not  even  ask  him  to  sit  down. 

"You  must  forgive  me  for  troubling  you,"  Darcy  be- 
gan; "but  the  report  has  reached  me  that  my  dear  wife 
was  a  patient  of  yours,  and  that  she  is  now  lying  dead 
at  4  Lockhart  Cottages." 

"Is  this  your  name?"  Dr.  Wentworth  asked,  pointing  to 
the  card  Darcy  had  given  him. 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  have  heard  aright.  A  lady,  whom  I  now 
know  to  be  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Darcy  Derrick,  died  at  that 
address  last  night." 

"My  poor  darling!"  exclaimed  Darcy,  breaking  down 
altogether  in  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  grief.  Tears  rushed 
from  his  eyes  and  he  sank  on  a  chair,  burying  his  face  in 
his  hands. 

The  doctor  watched  him  for  a  few  seconds  with  rather 
a  sarcastic  expression.  Having  beheld  Dorothy's  grief, 
he  was  but  little  touched  by  Darcy's. 

"If  you  will  pardon  me,"  he  said,  looking  at  his  watch, 
"I  have  so  many  appointments  to-day " 

"One  moment,  doctor!  What  was  the  cause  of  my 
poor  wife's  death  ?" 

"Failure  of  the  heart's  action." 

"I  must  see  her !"  cried  Darcy,  springing  from  his  seat 
and  beginning  to  pace  wildly  about  the  room.  "You  can 
have  no  idea  how  I  loved  her.  We  have  been  cruelly 
separated  through  the  wicked  schemes  of  her  sister,  who 
was  jealous  of  her.  I  only  lived  to  be  reconciled  to  her, 
and  now  she  has  been  snatched  away  from  me  by  death ! 
Do  you  think  her  end  was  hastened  in  any  way  ? — do  you 
think  that  it  was  all  the  result  of  an  accident  ?" 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  sir.  Your  wife  is  dead,  and 
I  have  told  you  the  cause  of  her  death.    Your  private 


224  A  Widower's  Letter. 

affairs,  if  you  will  pardon  me  for  saying  so,  do  not  con- 
cern me." 

With  that  Dr.  Wentworth  rang  the  bell  for  a  servant 
to  show  Mr.  Derrick  to  the  door. 

Still  in  a  state  of  hysterical  excitement,  the  Hon.  Darcy 
repaired  to  the  hotel  where  he  had  spent  the  preceding 
evening,  and  at  once  ordered  a  bottle  of  whiskey,  a  siphon 
of  soda,  and  pens,  ink  and  paper. 

Phyllis  should  know  what  he  thought  of  her  before 
another  hour  went  by,  and,  under  the  combined  influence 
of  grief,  rage,  baffled  love,  venomous  spite  and  repeated 
application  to  the  spirit  bottle,  he  indited  the  following 
letter  to  his  supposed  sister-in-law : 

"Phyllis  :  No  doubt  you  think  you  triumph  now  that 
your  sister,  my  beautiful  Dorothy — my  wife,  and  the  only 
woman  I  have  ever  truly  loved — is  dead  and  cold.  In 
your  bitter,  crazy  jealousy,  you  will  not  even  let  me  see 
her  face  again,  knowing,  as  you  must  do,  that  I  love  her 
dead  body  a  million  times  better  than  I  could  ever  care 
for  you  living.  But  for  you  and  your  evil  influence,  Doro- 
thy and  I  would  have  been  happy  together  all  these 
months.  She  was  meant  for  me,  put  into  the  world  for 
me,  and  but  for  you  coming,  like  a  poor,  faded  ghost  of 
her,  between  us,  we  should  have  been  together  now,  as 
we  ought  to  be.  I  only  cared  to  look  at  you  because 
of  your  likeness  to  her,  for  I  worshipped  her  from  her 
portraits  long  before  I  saw  her,  and  you  were  jealous 
even  of  them.  You  may,  perhaps,  in  your  wretched,  in- 
sane infatuation  for  me,  be  hugging  to  yourself  the 
thought  that  now  that  my  wife  is  dead  I  may  let  you 
take  her  place.  But  in  this  you  are  utterly  mistaken. 
Long  ago  I  wearied  of  the  sight  of  you,  and  now  I  abso- 
lutely hate  you.  Nothing  shall  ever  induce  me  to  look 
at  you  again.     Don't  attempt  to  hold  any  communication 


A  Widower's  Letter.  225 

with  me — I  repudiate  you  altogether.  I  never  loved  you, 
you  have  no  claim  upon  me  at  all,  and  I  don't  care  what 
becomes  of  you.  I  found  you  out  solely  through  my 
deep,  my  passionate  and  unalterable  love  for  my  wife 
Dorothy — love  so  intense  that  wherever  she  went  I  had 
to  follow  her.  Had  she  lived  I  would  have  won  her 
back  to  me  though  all  the  forces  of  heaven  and  hell  stood 
between  us.  But  now  that  she  is  dead  I  shall  only  stop 
in  this  neighborhood  long  enough  to  follow  her  to  the 
grave,  wherein  all  my  hopes  of  happiness  will  be  buried 
with  her.  From  that  dark  moment  you  need  never  hope 
to  see  or  hear  from  me  again.  Darcy  Derrick." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

GOOD  NEWS  THAT  CAME  TOO  EATE. 

The  Hon.  Darcy  called  again  at  Lockhart  Cottages  that 
day.  It  being  Sunday,  he  wished  to  deliver  his  letter 
in  person. 

Cresswell  took  it  from  him  without  a  word  and  car- 
ried it  upstairs  to  her  mistress.  As  she  passed  the  open 
door  of  the  darkened  dining-room  her  eyes  fell  upon  a 
letter  which  lay  unopened  upon  the  table.  It  was  the 
registered  communication  for  which  Phyllis  had  signed 
the  receipt  on  the  preceding  evening.  Cresswell's  tears 
broke  out  afresh  at  sight  of  it,  but  she  resolved  to  give 
it  to  Dorothy  on  the  chance  that  it  possibly  contained 
news  which  might  divert  her  thoughts  from  her  over- 
whelming grief. 

"That  dreadful  man  who  came  this  morning,  miss,  has 
been  again  and  has  brought  a  letter  for  you.  And  here's 
a  registered  letter  that  came  yesterday  evening  after  you 
had  left.     I'd  forgotten  all  about  it  in  our  trouble." 

Dorothy,  who  had  never  left  her  sister's  room,  and 
could  not  be  induced  to  take  sleep  or  food  since  Phyllis' 
death,  listlessly  held  out  her  hand  for  the  letters.  It 
was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  her  head  ached  with  long 
weeping  and  fasting.  She  read  Darcy  Derrick's  letter 
through  with  an  expression  of  bewilderment,  which  final- 
ly changed  to  one  of  relief. 

"He  thinks  it  is  I,  and  not  Phyllis,  who  is  dead,"  she 
said  to  herself,  wonderingly. 

In  truth,  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  that  he  would  take 


Good  News  that  Came  Too  Late.      227 

her  message,  or  her  subsequent  announcement  of  her 
sister's  married  name  to  Dr.  Wentworth,  in  that  spirit. 
The  suddenness  of  her  loss  had  stunned  her  faculties; 
she  had  not  stopped  to  reflect  that  Mr.  Derrick  had  no 
means  of  ascertaining  which  of  the  sisters  was  dead. 
She  pre-supposed  that  he  knew  it  was  Phyllis  and  she 
imagined  that  he  would  take  the  message  as  coming  from 
her  (Dorothy)  in  the  defiant  spirit  in  which  she  had 
framed  it. 

But  as  she  re-read  Darcy's  letter  a  new  thought  came 
into  her  mind.  Had  not  he  himself  by  his  mistake  opened 
out  to  her  a  new  way  of  escape  from  him?  Tears  of 
thankfulness  gushed  from  her  eyes  as  she  gazed  from 
the  open  sheet  in  her  hand  to  her  sister's  face,  calm  in 
the  peaceful  dignity  of  death.  That  gentle  heart  could 
never  again  be  wounded  by  Darcy's  cruelty,  nor  could 
his  bitterest  taunts  have  any  more  power  to  cause  her 
tears  to  flow. 

The  beauty  of  her  early  girlhood  had  come  back  to 
Phyllis'  face,  ennobled  by  Death's  first  idealizing  touch. 
Very  mean  and  small  and  petty,  of  the  world  worldly, 
and  torn  by  a  thousand  distracting  emotions,  Dorothy 
felt  herself  to  be  before  her,  and  she  who  had  petted  and 
protected  Phyllis  in  her  lifetime  felt  strangely  awed  and 
reverent  in  the  presence  of  Phyllis  dead. 

"Thank  God,  she  never  read  this  letter!"  Dorothy 
whispered  to  herself,  gushing  hot  with  anger  for  the  in- 
sults which  Darcy  addressed  to  the  woman  who  had  so 
loved  him.  "If  only  I  can  contrive  not  to  undeceive 
him!  He  seems  almost  as  anxious  not  to  see  Phyllis  as 
I  am  not  to  see  him.  If  he  thinks  I  am  Phyllis  he  will 
avoid  me,  and  I  shall  at  least  escape  the  sin  of  murder, 
for  if  I  see  him  and  if  he  should  speak  to  me  or  try 
to  touch  me  I  feel  I  must  kill  him!  If  he  were  to  find 
out  the  truth,  he  has  sworn  he  will  never  rest  from  follow- 


228      Good  News  that  Came  Too  Late. 

ing  me,  and  I  know  he  would  keep  his  word.  He  has 
hunted  us  down  already,  and  he  would  do  so  again.  No 
one  has  seen  my  dear  Phyllis  since  last  night  except 
Cresswell  and  Dr.  Wentworth.  Cresswell  will  say  what 
I  tell  her,  and  Dr.  Wentworth  knows  Phyllis  as  Mrs. 
Darcy  Derrick.  I  gave  my  word  to  Phyllis  long  ago 
that  she  should  be  buried  as  a  married  woman  in  her  hus- 
band's name.  This  wretch  who  ruined  her  life  says  he 
will  follow  his  wife's  body  to  the  grave;  well,  then,  he 
shall  do  so,  and  Phyllis  shall  be  buried  as  Mrs.  Darcy 
Derrick.  Afterward,  I  will  instantly  leave  this  place  with 
Cresswell,  and  we  will  find  very  quiet,  very  cheap,  rooms 
somewhere,  anywhere,  so  that  I  am  not  likely  to  meet 
that  horribly  cruel  madman  who  calls  himself  my  hus- 
band." 

This  decision  in  some  sort  modified  the  intensity  of 
Dorothy's  grief,  as  any  practical  resolve  necessarily  re- 
lieves the  strain  on  an  essentially  active  mind.  She  read 
Darcy 's  letter  carefully  through  a  third  time,  and  then 
proceeded  as  carefully  to  destroy  it  and  to  wash  her 
fingers  after  touching  anything  his  hands  had  touched. 
Not  until  after  this  task  did  she  remember  the  registered 
letter  to  "Miss  Dorothea  Knight,"  for  which  a  receipt  had 
been  given  in  her  absence  by  Phyllis  on  the  preceding 
evening. 

The  senders  were  a  firm  of  solicitors,  Messrs.  Searle 
&  Glyn,  and  their  office  address,  printed  on  the  notepaper, 
was  in  Buckingham  street,  Strand. 

"Madam,"  the  lawyers  wrote.  "In  pursuance  of  our 
desire  to  carry  out  the  testamentary  intentions  of  our 
late  client,  Mrs.  Julius  Knight,  of  37  Belvedere  Gardens, 
Hyde  Park,  we  have  recently  inserted  advertisements 
in  the  London  papers  with  a  view  to  obtaining  your  ad- 
dress. This,  however,  we  failed  to  do  until  yesterday, 
when  a  gentleman,  who  gave  his  name  as  the  Hon.  Darcy 


Good  News  that  Came  Too  Late.       229 

Derrick,  Lord  Derrick's  brother,  called  at  our  office  and 
informed  us,  first,  that  he  had  married  Miss  Dorothea 
Knight  at  St.  James  Church,  Plymouth,  in  September 
of  last  year,  and,  second,  that  family  quarrels  had  parted 
him  from  his  wife,  to  whom  he  was  very  deeply  attached, 
but  whose  present  address  he  had  only  just  succeeded 
in  discovering.  We  are,  therefore,  sending  this  letter, 
registered,  to  the  address  with  which  he  furnished  us, 
and,  should  this  reach  you,  we  must  beg  you  to  at  once 
communicate  with  us  at  our  office. 

"Mr.  Derrick  informed  us  that  he  had  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  your  present  circumstances  were  somewhat 
straitened,  and  that  you  would  be  more  likely  to  give  our 
representative  an  interview  if  you  knew  the  nature  of  the 
business  upon  which  we  wish  to  confer  with  you.  We 
have  much  pleasure,  therefore,  in  informing  you  that  by 
the  will  of  our  late  client,  Mrs.  Julius  Knight,  the  great 
bulk  of  her  property,  including  the  freehold  residence 
at  37  Belvedere  Gardens,  with  furniture,  plate,  horses  and 
carriages,  a  collection  of  valuable  jewelry  and  investments 
yielding  an  income  of  ten  thousand  pounds  yearly,  is  left 
unconditionally  to  her  grand-niece  and  god-child,  Doro- 
thea Knight,  orphan  daughter  of  the  late  Harold  Everett 
Knight,  formerly  of  Petersham  Lodge  and  the  Stock  Ex- 
change." 

Dorothy  put  down  the  letter  and  drew  a  deep  breath. 

So  many  things  had  happened  since  that  Sunday  after- 
noon in  early  summer  when  she  had  sought  out  her  great- 
aunt  in  order  to  plead  for  Phyllis  that  she  had  almost 
forgotten  the  incident.  Her  aunt  had  said  things  against 
her  sister,  and  she  had  retorted  wrathfully,  and  had  left 
the  house.  And  now  Aunt  Dorothea  had  atoned  in  her 
own  way  for  the  pain  she  had  caused  her  niece  that  after- 
noon. Hers  had  been  such  a  vivacious,  dominant  per- 
sonality that  it  was  difficult  to  think  of  her  as  dead;  a 


230      Good  News  that  Came  Too  Late. 

kind-hearted,  hot-tempered,  autocratic,  spoiled  woman, 
proud  of  her  full-blown  charms,  which  she  had  retained 
late  in  life,  proud  of  her  diamonds  and  all  that  was  hers, 
and,  above  all,  proud  of  her  dinners,  and  revelling  in  the 
triumphs  of  her  chef's  skill. 

She  had  been  touched,  deeply  touched,  Dorothy  re- 
membered, by  the  tale  of  Phyllis'  starving  on  Richmond 
Bridge,  though  she  had  but  little  sympathy  for  the  story 
of  her  betrayal.  And  now  both  aunt  and  niece  were 
dead,  and  that  money  which  might  have  prolonged  Phyl- 
lis' life  belonged  to  Dorothy,  who  could  never  spend  one 
penny  of  it  in  making  her  sister  happy. 

"Too  late!  It  has  come  too  late!"  sobbed  Dorothy, 
her  hot  tears  falling  on  Phyllis'  ice-cold  hands.  "What 
can  I  buy  for  you  now,  my  dear  one,  but  the  winter  roses 
and  lilies  of  the  dead  ?" 

The  news  of  this  fortune,  coming  when  it  did,  seemed 
a  bitter  mockery.  She  reflected,  too,  that  Darcy  knew 
of  it,  and,  to  a  ruined  spendthrift  such  as  he,  a  wife 
with  a  large  income  would  offer  irresistible  attractions. 

"He  must  never  suspect  it  is  I,  Dorothy,  who  am  alive, 
now,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I  must  hide  myself  until  he 
is  out  of  the  neighborhood,  and  must  then  leave  England 
at  once  with  Cresswell,  using  Phyllis'  name  until  I  have 
put  many  miles  of  sea  and  land  between  us.  I  might  even 
go  to  America,  and  try  to  find  my  brother  Shafto.  I  know 
the  firm  to  whom  he  was  at  first  sent,  and  Shafto  was 
always  affectionate  to  me.  It  would  be  nice  to  find  some 
one  belonging  to  me — some  one  to  protect  me." 

But  very  soon  her  thoughts  wandered  back  to  the  many 
things  she  might  have  done  for  Phyllis,  if  only  this  money 
had  come  to  her  earlier.  She  was  so  accustomed  to  think 
for  Phyllis,  to  work  for  Phyllis,  to  sacrifice  herself  daily 
and  hourly  for  Phyllis,  that  now  that  Phyllis  lay  dead 
beyond  all  love  and  service,  Dorothy's  life  seemed  a  blank, 


Good  News  that  Came  Too  Late.       231 

and  the  fact  that  she  was  a  rich  woman  served  only  to 
fill  her  with  poignant  regrets. 

The  violent  emotions  of  the  past  twenty-four  hours, 
coming  as  they  did  after  four  whole  years  of  overwork 
of  body  and  brain,  had  strained  Dorothy's  powers  to  the 
utmost,  and  she  was  now  on  the  brink  of  a  serious  break- 
down. 

All  need  for  working  and  striving  had  been  suddenly 
taken  away  just  at  the  moment  when  constant,  enforced 
occupation  might  have  proved  a  solace  to  her.  She  had 
nothing  to  do  but  to  remain  passive  and  conceal  herself 
from  the  man  she  so  feared  and  hated  until  such  time 
as  she  could  secretly  leave  England.  There  were  no  im- 
mediate duties  to  drive  from  her  brain  the  thought  of 
her  sister's  wrongs,  her  sister's  sufferings,  her  blighted 
life,  the  cruel  suddenness  of  her  death. 

When  at  length,  worn  out  with  grief,  she  lay  down 
on  her  bed  to  sleep,  a  sort  of  vertigo  possessed  her  mind. 

Hour  after  hour  she  fancied  that  she  was  endeavoring 
to  escape  with  Phyllis  from  an  exaggerated  and  mon- 
strous Darcy  Derrick,  looming  behind-  them,  diabolical 
in  form  and  power.  And  as  his  shadow  neared  them, 
Phyllis'  warm  hand  would  turn  to  coldest  clay  within 
Dorothy's  protecting  clasp,  her  heart  would  gradually 
cease  to  beat,  and  when,  in  an  agony  of  terror,  Dorothy 
seized  her  in  her  arms,  it  was  a  corpse,  and  not  a  living 
woman  she  held  there. 

Through  the  semi-delirium  of  that  terrible  night,  one 
only  ray  of  hope  shone  through  the  thick  cloud  of  her 
fevered  imaginings.  Sometimes,  as  she  and  Phyllis  were 
about  to  fall  into  the  clutches  of  their  enemy,  a  strong 
man's  hand  would  seize  both  hers  and  draw  her  out  be- 
yond Darcy's  reach.  The  form  and  features  of  this 
Perseus  of  dreamland  were  blurred  and  indistinct;  but 
when  at  one  point  she  strained  to  see  his  face,  she  knew 


232      Good  News  that  Came  Too  Late. 

it  instantly  for  that  of  Aylmer  Read,  her  friend  of  the 
old  Museum  student  days. 

Early  the  next  morning  Dr.  Wentworth  called,  to  find 
Dorothy  with  dry,  hot  lips,  aching  head,  and  ice-cold 
hands  and  feet. 

She  was  not  ill,  she  declared;  there  was  nothing  the 
matter  with  her.  He  might  ask  Cresswell;  Cresswell 
would  tell  him  she  had  never  been  ill  in  her  life — she  was 
only  afraid  lest  that  dreadful  man  should  get  hold  of  her. 

"You  are  sure  he  didn't  come  in  with  you?"  she  cried, 
starting  up  in  bed  with  scared  eyes.  "He  is  so  cunning 
and  wicked  one  can't  escape  from  him.  He  killed  my 
sister.  You  know  that,  don't  you,  Dr.  Wentworth? 
Didn't  I  tell  you?" 

The  surprise  in  his  face  seemed  to  restore  her  mental 
balance.  Blushing  deeply,  she  fell  back  on  the  pillows 
again. 

"Please  forgive  me  if  I  have  been  talking  nonsense," 
she  said  humbly.  "I  have  had  bad  dreams  all  night, 
and  don't  seem  to  be  out  of  them  yet,  and  I  feel  weak 
and  strange." 

"You  have  had  nothing  to  eat  since  the  day  before 
yesterday,  which  is  quite  enough  to  account  for  it,"  Dr. 
Wentworth  said.  "I  want  to  know  whether  I  can  be  of 
any  use  to  you — about  your  sister's  funeral,  I  mean.  I 
have  spoken  to  Mrs.  Cresswell,  and  she  seems  utterly 
helpless ;  indeed,  she  scarcely  seems  to  know  your  sister's 
name.  You  are  not  in  a  fit  state  to  get  out  of  bed,  and 
I'm  afraid  you  won't  be  for  some  days.  But  if  you  will 
kindly  furnish  me  with  a  few  necessary  particulars  I  will 
take  all  the  worry  of  the  affair  off  your  hands.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  to  tell  me  Mrs.  Darcy  Derrick's  full  name 
and  age ;  that  is  all  I  want  to  know." 

Dorothy  lay  silent  for  a  few  seconds. 

Then  she  said  in  constrained  tones: 


Good  News  that  Came  Too  Late.       233 

"Mrs.  Darcy  Derrick's  maiden  name  was  Dorothea 
Knight,  and  her  age  now  would  be  twenty-one." 

Dr.  Wentworth  took  down  her  words,  and  later  on  left 
the  house,  promising  to  call  again  toward  evening,  and 
insisting  upon  absolute  rest  and  quiet  for  his  patient. 
Before  his  second  visit,  however,  an  event  had  occurred 
which  did  away  with  all  possibility  of  that  calm  repose 
upon  the  necessity  for  which  he  had  so  strongly  dwelt. 
This  was  the  arrival  of  a  second  letter  from  the  solicitors, 
Messrs.  Searle  &  Glyn,  brought  to  Lockhart  Cottages  by 
a  messenger,  who  had  received  instructions  to  wait  for 
an  answer. 

The  lawyers  wrote : 

"Madam — Mr.  Darcy  Derrick  called  at  our  office  at 
ten  o'clock  this  morning  with  the  unexpected  and  dis- 
tressing intelligence  that  his  wife,  our  client,  Miss  Doro- 
thea Knight,  or,  to  style  her  aright,  Mrs.  Darcy  Derrick, 
died  very  suddenly  at  Lockhart  Cottages  on  Saturday 
evening  last  at  half-past  eight  o'clock.  Mr.  Derrick  fur- 
nished us  with  the  name  of  the  doctor  who  attended  her, 
and  an  exchange  of  telegrams  with  him  has  confirmed 
the  sad  intelligence.  Mr.  Derrick  is  desirous  of  attend- 
ing his  late  wife's  funeral,  and  we  should  wish  a  repre- 
sentative of  our  firm  to  be  present  on  the  occasion.  Dr. 
Wentworth's  telegram  informs  us  that  you  are  prostrate 
with  grief  and  seriously  ill.  But  if  you  will  kindly  dic- 
tate a  few  words  and  dispatch  them  by  the  bearer  of  this 
letter,  giving  us  the  particulars  as  to  the  date  and  place 
of  your  sister's  interment,  you  would  be  conferring  a 
great  favor  upon  your  obedient  servants, 

"Searle  &  Glyn. 
"To  Miss  Phyllis  Knight." 

Something  of  the  power  of  the  law  in  its  cold,  passion- 


234      Good  News  that  Came  Too  Late. 

less,  judicial  aspect  impressed  itself  upon  Dorothy  as  she 
read  the  letter. 

A  lie  once  spoken  in  hot  defiance,  with  no  intention  to 
deceive,  had  been  taken  as  a  truth,  and  she  found  herself 
forced  to  stand  by  it. 

Suppose  she  were  to  send  for  these  lawyers  and  ex- 
plain to  them  the  mistake  that  had  been  made,  to  tell 
the  whole  truth  to  them,  what  would  be-  the  result  ? 

Darcy  Derrick  would  attend  the  funeral,  would  see  that 
the  dead  woman  was  buried  as  Phyllis  Knight,  would 
disclaim  all  relationship  with  her,  and  cast  a  foul  slur 
upon  her  memory  and  name.  He  would  triumph  in  his 
victim's  death,  and  before  the  grass  had  grown  above  her 
grave  would  be  subjecting  her  sister  to  his  gross  and  in- 
tolerable persecutions,  urged  by  the  double  force  of  his 
evil  passion  and  his  desire  to  get  her  fortune. 

The  law  would  take  no  count  of  Phyllis'  ruined  life 
and  tragic  death.  Had  Darcy  married  her  legally,  he 
could  not  have  wedded  her  sister;  but  as  the  law  would 
set  aside  a  marriage  contracted  during  the  first  Mrs. 
Derrick's  lifetime,  he  was  perfectly  free  to  claim  Dorothy 
as  his  lawful  wife. 

Her  heart  was  filled  with  hatred  against  him,  with 
horror  of  him,  and  with  dread  of  the  violence  of  her  own' 
feelings  should  he  so  much  as  enter  her  presence. 

And  yet,  so  long  as  he  believed  her  alive,  she  could 
never  for  one  moment  be  free  from  him. 

Every  one  would  be  against  her.  She  fancied  she 
could  hear  the  stereotyped  old  phrases  which  would  be 
used:  "A  wife's  place  is  at  her  husband's  side;"  "No 
one  should  come  between  man  and  wife ;"  "A  wife's  best 
shelter  is  her  husband's  love ;"  "Whom  God  hath  joined," 
etc.,  etc. 

She  knew,  in  brief,  just  what  would  happen  if  this 
mistake  were  made  right,  and  with  every  nerve  in  her 


Good  News  that  Came  Too  Late.       235 

body  quivering  with  terror  and  disgust  at  the  thought  of 
this  man's  claim  upon  her,  she  sprang  from  her  bed,  re- 
solved, whether  it  were  fraudulent  or  not,  to  go  through 
with  this  deception. 

"Tell  the  messenger,"  she  called  to  Cresswell,  "to  wait. 
And  please  go  round  to  Dr.  Wentworth  and  ask  him 
to  come  to  me  at  once." 

The  doctor  found  her  flushed  and  strangely  bright 
about  the  eyes,  with  the  temperature  of  fever,  but  in 
manner  perfectly  calm  and  sane. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  the  funeral,"  she  said; 
"a  messenger  is  waiting  to  know  what  is  arranged." 

A  few  minutes  later  Messrs.  Searle  &  Glyn's  emissary 
set  out  on  his  return  journey,  bearing  a  short  note  writ- 
ten by  Dr.  Wentworth  at  Dorothy's  dictation,  she  having 
said  that  she  was  too  weak  to  hold  a  pen. 

"Miss  Knight  thanks  Messrs.  Searle  &  Glyn  for  their 
letter,  and  informs  them  that  the  funeral  of  her  sister, 
Mrs.  Darcy  Derrick,  will  start  from  this  address  for 
Brompton  Cemetery  at  twelve  o'clock  (noon)  to-morrow 
(Tuesday). 

The  state  of  unnatural  excitement  in  which  he  found 
his  patient  alarmed  Dr.  Wentworth,  and  he  began  to 
strongly  dissuade  her  against  attending  her  sister's 
funeral.  Rather  to  his  surprise,  she  at  once  yielded  to 
his  suggestion  that  she  should  stay  in  bed  for  a  day. 

"I  will  tell  you  frankly,  Dr.  Wentworth,"  she  said,  "I 
do  not  wish  to  meet  my  sister's  husband.  If  you  think 
I  am  ill  and  feverish  now,  I  can  assure  you  that  the  mere 
sight  of  him  would  make  me  a  thousand  times  worse. 
I  loved  my  sister  beyond  everything  in  the  world,  and 
that  man's  treatment  of  her  was  so  unutterably  cruel  as 
to  be  hardly  human." 

Tears  rolled  down  her  face  as  she  spoke  in  tones  of 
deep  earnestness  that  carried  conviction  to  her  hearer. 


236      Good  News  that  Came  Too  Late. 

"Mr.  Derrick  must  be  a  consummate  hypocrite,"  he 
observed  thoughtfully.  "In  speaking  of  his  late  wife  he 
employed  terms  of  the  wildest  and  most  extravagant  af- 
fection. He  assured  me  he  could  not  live  without  her, 
and  cried  like  a  child  at  the  mention  of  her  name." 

"That  is  because  she  had  just  come  into  some  property, 
and  he  knew  it,"  Miss  Knight  said,  scornfully. 

Dr.  Wentworth  listened  and  wondered;  but  he  had 
many  calls  upon  his  time,  and  very  shortly  afterward 
took  leave,  after  prescribing  a  sedative  and  a  sleeping 
draught  for  his  beautiful  and  excitable  patient. 

Dorothy  lay  still  for  some  little  while  after  his  de- 
parture; but  there  was  something  more  to  be  done,  and 
done  instantly ;  and,  flinging  on  her  dressing-gown  again, 
she  went  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  called  Cresswell 
softly,  as  one  instinctively  calls  in  the  house  where  the 
dead  are  lying. 

The  old  servant  entered,  pale,  red-eyed,  a  little  hurt 
and  on  her  dignity  in  that  she  had  not  been  consulted 
or  even  informed  about  the  funeral. 

"Cresswell,  dear,"  Dorothy  began,  putting  her  hands 
on  her  shoulders,  "I  have  something  very,  very  impor- 
tant to  say  to  you.  For  my  dear  sister's  sake,  and  for 
my  sake,  you  must  join  me  in  something  which  looks 
like  deception,  but  which  we  must  carry  through  for  a 
few  days.  Listen,  and  don't  cry.  It  is  nothing  very 
dreadful.  You  remember  our  great-aunt,  Mrs.  Julius 
Knight?  Her  lawyers  have  written  to  tell  me  that  she 
is  dead,  and  that  she  has  left  me  a  large  fortune ;  so  that 
we  shall  not  be  poor  any  more.  But  some  other  very 
wicked  people — that  man  Mr.  Darcy  Derrick,  whom  you 
saw — will  try  to  get  the  money  and  to  persecute  me  for  it ; 
and  the  only  way  by  which  I  can  escape  is  to  pretend 
that  it  is  I,  Dorothy,  lying  dead,  and  that  I,  whom  you 
now  see,  am  Phyllis.     I  see  you  can't  understand,  and  it 


Good  News  that  Came  Too  Late.      237 

is  impossible  for  me  to  explain  to  you  more  fully.  But 
you  have  always  done  all  that  I  have  asked  you,  and  I 
am  sure  that  you  will  do  this.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to 
say,  if  you  are  asked,  that  it  is  Miss  Dorothy,  the  elder 
sister,  who  is  dead,  and  that  I  am  the  younger,  Miss 
Phyllis." 

"But  it's  all  such  a  mystery!"  gasped  Cresswell,  be- 
wildered. "First  Miss  Phyllis  calls  herself  Mrs.  Tre- 
velyan ;  then  a  young  gentleman  says  she's  his  wife,  and 
that  he's  called  Derrick;  then  I  am  to  say  you  are  her, 
and  I'm  kept  in  the  dark  about  everything  all  the  time, 
just  as  if  I  was  a  baby." 

"Now,  don't  be  cross  and  tiresome,  Cresswell,  dear; 
you  don't  know  how  much  depends  on  this.  I  will,  per- 
haps, tell  you  all  my  reasons  some  day,  but  I  can't  now. 
And  it's  only  for  a  day  or  two.  We  will  go  away  to- 
gether, you  and  I,  right  out  of  England,  and  when  once 
we  are  in  another  country  I  will  take  my  own  name 
again.  Only,  when  people  ask  you  my  name,  remember 
it's  Phyllis,  and  I  am  twenty  years  old.  And  Dorothy  is 
dead!" 

"But  the  people  about  here  who  have  seen  you  both 
won't  believe  me,"  said  Cresswell,  struck  by  a  sudden 
inspiration.  "Poor  Miss  Phyllis  was  taller  than  you,  and 
then  look  at  the  difference  in  your  hair !" 

"I  can  cut  mine  off  and  dye  it,  just  like  hers,"  said 
Dorothy.  As  she  spoke  she  ran  to  the  dressing-table, 
and  before  Cresswell  had  time  to  expostulate,  snip,  snip, 
went  the  scissors,  and  a  shower  of  sunny,  brown  locks 
slipped  from  her  shoulders  on  to  the  floor. 

"I  can  wear  much  higher  heels  and  a  thick  veil,"  she 
said,  as  she  went  on  hurriedly  with  her  task.  "And  I 
will  use  that  stuff  for  my  hair  that  my  poor  darling  used. 
And  now  that  I  am  so  much  thinner  you  will  be  hardly 
able  to  know  me  from  her." 


238      Good  News  that  Came  Too  Late. 

Her  rapidity  and  impulsiveness  took  Cresswell's  breath 
away,  but  she  wept  afresh  at  the  sight  of  the  short  curls 
on  the  floor. 

"I've  always  been  so  proud  of  your  lovely  hair!"  she 
sobbed,  as  she  dropped  on  her  knees  to  collect  it.  "It  do 
seem  like  the  end  of  everything." 

"It  will  grow  again,  you  dear,  silly,  old  thing,"  cried 
Dorothy,  snipping  away  the  more  impetuously  that  she 
disliked  these  small  subterfuges,  and  would  gladly  have 
avoided  them. 

But  at  noon  next  day  her  reward  came,  when,  looking 
out  from  behind  the  blind  in  her  bedroom,  she  saw  her 
sister  borne  to  her  last  resting  place  under  the  name  of 
"Mrs.  Darcy  Derrick,"  and  followed,  weeping  to  her 
grave,  by  the  man  who  had  betrayed  her. 

"Dearest,  I  kept  my  word  to  you.  Thank  God  for 
that!"  she  murmured  as,  breaking  down  altogether,  sh£ 
sobbed  her  heart  out  kneeling  by  the  bed  where  the  dead 
had  lain. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
Dorothy's  crime. 

The  day  following  Phyllis'  funeral  found  Dorothy  in  a 
state  of  utter  prostration. 

All  her  bravery  and  determination  seemed  to  have  left 
her.  She  lay  nerveless  and  still,  scarcely  listening  while 
the  doctor  told  her  she  ought  to  leave  her  present  sur- 
roundings as  soon  as  she  felt  strong  enough  to  move. 

"I  am  going  to  leave  England,"  she  said  at  last,  "almost 
immediately.     I  shall  go  to  America  or  Australia." 

"You  are  certainly  not  in  a  fit  condition  to  undertake 
a  long  journey  at  present,"  the  doctor  observed.  "Change 
of  scene  you  need  imperatively,  but  I  should  advise,  if 
possible,  some  place  within  easy  driving  distance  for  a 
day  or  two,  in  order  to  recruit  your  strength  a  little.  In 
your  present  state  of  nerves  a  long  journey  by  rail  might 
be  most  injurious.  If  you  have  any  relatives  living  with- 
in driving  distance " 

"I  have  none,"  she  said,  interrupting  him  almost  fierce- 
ly. "No  relatives  and  no  friends.  But  I  have  money 
and  will  do  as  you  say." 

"Why  has  your  mistress  cut  off  her  hair?"  the  doctor 
asked  Cresswell  before  he  left  the  house.  "She  looked 
so  like  her  dead  sister  with  her  white  face  and  short  hair 
that  when  I  entered  the  room  I  was  absolutely  startled." 

"It  made  her  head  hot  so  that  she  couldn't  sleep  at 
night,"  Cresswell  explained  rather  lamely. 

Cresswell  liked  the  idea  of  deceiving  him  and  every- 
body as  to  the  identity  of  the  sisters. 


240  Dorothy's  Crime. 

Secretive  and  taciturn  by  temperament,  she  enjoyed 
anything  in  the  nature  of  a  mystery  as  keenly  as  do  all 
her  class,  and  the  notion  of  a  plot,  of  however  innocent 
a  kind,  between  her  mistress  and  herself,  gave  a  zest  to 
life  under  which  her  spirits  revived  wonderfully. 

Half  an  hour  later  Dorothy  called  her  to  her  bedside 
again. 

"We  will  go  and  stay  for  a  few  days  at  your  brother's 
cottage  near  Ham  Common,"  Miss  Knight  said.  "I  have 
been  thinking  it  all  over,  and  it  is  just  the  place  for  us. 
I  know  when  we  lived  at  our  old  home  I  often  used  to 
think  that  if  any  one  wanted  to  hide,  that  cottage  in 
the  nursery  garden,  hidden  among  tall  trees,  would  be 
an  ideal  retreat.  I  shall  soon  get  strong  again  there,  and 
we  can  drive  all  the  way  down.  But  first  of  all  I  must 
get  some  of  my  money  from  those  lawyer  people." 

And  here  a  difficulty  presented  itself.  Cresswell  de- 
tested writing  and  could  only  with  great  difficulty  be 
induced  to  sign  her  own  name.  Dorothy's  handwriting 
was  altogether  unlike  that  of  her  sister,  and  it  was  quite 
possible  that  Darcy  Derrick,  who  appeared  to  be  constant- 
ly holding  communication  with  Messrs.  Searle  and  Glyn, 
might  contrive  to  see  any  letter  she  wrote  and  at  once 
discover  the  deception  that  was  being  practiced  upon  him. 
Dorothy  felt  faint  with  apprehension  at  the  thought. 

"Do  you  know  any  one  who  could  do  a  little  writing 
for  me,  at  my  dictation,  Cresswell  ?"  she  asked.  "I  know 
it's  of  no  use  asking  you,  and  I  feel  too  weak  to  sit  up 
yet,  or  there  will  be  no  hope  of  leaving  here." 

The  daughter  of  the  laundress,  who  lived  in  the  neigh- 
boring North  End  road,  was,  so  Cresswell  asserted,  a 
beautiful  writer,  and  she  was  forthwith  dispatched 
in  search  of  her,  while  Dorothy  lay  with  closed  eyes  think- 
ing over  the  wording  of  her  appeal. 

But  this  particular  letter  was  never  fated  to  be  written. 


Dorothy's  Crime.  241 

The  door  had  scarcely  closed  on  Cresswell  when  the  post- 
man brought  a  letter  for  "Miss  Phyllis  Knight,"  in  the  en- 
velope and  writing  with  which  Dorothy  was  now  familiar 
as  coming  from  the  office  of  Messrs.  Searle  and  Glyn. 

Anxiety  made  her  rise  and  creep  feebly  down  the  stairs 
and  the  little  garden  path  to  the  green  gate,  and  the  same 
feeling  prompted  her  to  tear  open  the  envelope  before  she 
reached  the  house  door.  But  at  the  sight  of  the  first 
words  every  trace  of  color  left  her  cheek;  she  stumbled 
rather  than  walked  into  the  hall,  and  pushing  open  the 
door  of  the  little  parlor,  fell,  trembling  and  unnerved,  on  a 
chair. 

The  lawyer  wrote : 

Madame. — Will  you  kindly  inform  us,  if  possible  by  re- 
turn post,  whether  your  sister,  the  late  Mrs.  Dorothea  Der- 
rick, left  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  will  ?  As  you  are  no 
doubt  aware,  the  large  fortune  left  to  her  by  our  client, 
Mrs.  Julius  Knight,  will,  if  your  sister  has  died  intestate, 
become  the  sole  property  of  her  husband,  the  Hon.  Darcy 
Derrick. 

The  paper  fell  from  Dorothy's  hands  to  the  ground. 
There  on  that  same  sofa  where  the  two  sisters  had  sat 
locked  in  one  another's  arms  on  that  terrible  night  when 
Phyllis  had  sobbed  out  the  story  of  her  cruel  desertion 
and  betrayal,  Dorothy  was  seated  as  she  learned  that,  by 
her  own  action  in  confusing  her  identity  with  that  of 
Phyllis,  the  man  who  had  brought  about  her  sister's  death 
was  to  succeed  through  that  event  to  the  bulk  of  her  aunt's 
fortune. 

Dorothy's  brain  reeled  at  the  thought.  There  was  no 
one  in  the  whole  world  to  whom  she  could  turn  for  ad- 
vice ;  she  knew  nothing  of  the  law,  she  was  alone  in  the 
house,  she  was  pitiably  weak  and  even  a  little  light-headed 
as  a  result  of  long  weeping,  sleeplessness  and  fasting. 
But  she  had  to  pit  her  woman's  ingenuity  against  this 


242  Dorothy's  Crime. 

monstrous  injustice  of  the  law,  as  it  appeared  to  her,  and 
her  old  indomitable  spirit  urged  her  to  be  equal  to  the  oc- 
casion. 

Only  one  alternative  presented  itself  before  her  fevered 
brain.  Dorothy  was  supposed  to  have  died  intestate,  but 
she,  Dorothy,  to  whom  the  money  was  left,  was  alive,  and 
could  assign  it  to  whom  she  pleased. 

She  knew  how  to  make  a  will,  or  at  least  she  knew 
where  to  put  her  hand  on  a  book  of  the  "Universal  In- 
quirer" order,  which  would  furnish  her  with  the  necessary 
information. 

With  nervous  haste  she  sought  the  book  in  question,  and 
hurriedly  turned  the  pages  until  she  found  the  desired  in- 
formation. Then,  sitting  down  before  her  desk,  she  pro- 
ceeded to  write  with  a  shaking  hand  on  a  sheet  of  ruled 
foolscap : 

"This  is  the  last  will  and  testament  of  Mrs.  Dorothea 
Derrick,  formerly  Miss  Dorothea  Knight,  of  No.  four 
Lockhart  Cottages,  Severn  road,  Hammersmith,  London. 
I  hereby  give,  devise  and  bequeath  to  my  sister,  Phyllis 
Knight,  her  heirs,  executors  and  administrators,  for  her 
and  their  own  use  and  benefit  absolutely  and  forever,  all 
my  estate  and  effects  both  real  and  personal,  whatsoever 
and  wheresoever,  and  of  what  nature  and  quality  soever ; 
and  I  hereby  appoint  her,  the  said  Phyllis  Knight,  sole 
executrix  of  this  my  will.  In  witness  whereof  I  have 
hereunto  set  my  hand  this " 

Dorothy  stopped.  It  was  now  Wednesday,  the  twenty- 
seventh  day  of  February.  Phyllis  had  died  on  Saturday, 
the  twenty-third,  and  her  death  had  been  registered  in  her 
sister's  name  two  days  later.  Clearly  the  date  must  be 
falsified,  and  seizing  her  pen  again,  Dorothy  boldly  ante- 
dated her  will  by  one  whole  month.  , 

"I  have  hereunto  set  my  hand  this  twenty-seventh  day 
of  January,  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  eighty-four." 


Dorothy's  Crime.  243 

All  doubt  as  to  the  witnesses  lor  the  signature  was  set 
at  rest  by  the  arrival  at  that  exact  moment  of  Cresswell  at 
the  little  green  garden  gate,  accompanied  by  Emma  Hud- 
dleston,  the  laundress's  daughter  from  the  North  End 
road. 

This  Emma  seemed  specially  suitable  for  Dorothy's  pur- 
pose. She  knew  neither  of  the  Misses  Knight  by  sight, 
and  was  a  tall,  lank,  pallid  girl,  of  vacant  face  and  shy, 
awkward  manners.  The  blind  was  still  lowered  in  the 
little  parlor,  and  all  the  light  that  penetrated  there  came 
through  the  space  intervening  on  each  side  between  the 
narrow  blind  and  the  woodwork  of  the  window. 

Emma  Huddleston  saw  but  imperfectly,  coming  as  she 
did  from  the  clear  sunlight,  the  figure  of  a  lady  in  deep 
mourning — a  lady  who  seemed  preternaturally  tall  and 
thin  and  pale  and  sad,  and  who  wore  her  hair  cut  short  as 
a  boy's.  The  lady's  voice  was  wonderfully  sweet,  but  her 
manner  was  somewhat  abrupt  and  peremptory  as  she 
asked  Emma  to  affix  her  name  and  address  at  the  foot 
of  a  sheet  of  paper  which  she  pushed  toward  her. 

The  paper  had  blue  lines,  and  apparently  contained 
writing;  but  it  was  carefully  folded  so  that  only  a  blank 
space  was  offered  for  Miss  Huddleston's  inspection. 

"I  am  leaving  this  house,"  the  lady  explained  hurriedly, 
"and  I  have  been  making  a  list  of  everything  in  it.  I  want 
it  to  seem  legal,  and  so  I  propose  to  get  you  to  write  your 
names  as  witnesses  to  my  signature — you  and  Cresswell. 
Will  you  do  that  ?  I  will  give  you  half  a  crown  for  your 
trouble." 

"Yes,  miss ;  thank  you.     Will  you  write  first." 

Dorothy  took  the  pen,  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then,  in 
a  large,  clear  handwriting,  affixed  her  signature: 

"Dorothea  Derrick." 

The  name  bore  no  meaning  to  the  laundress's  daughter, 
and  she  scarcely  appeared  to  have  noticed  it  as  she  took 


244  Dorothy's  Crime. 

the  pen  Dorothy  handed  to  her  and  proceeded  to  inscribe 
slowly,  in  a  careful,  copperplate  style:  "Emma  Amelia 
Victoria  Huddleston,"  and  her  address  in  the  North  End 
road. 

But  during  this  process  Cresswell  was  moved  to  ex- 
treme uneasiness.  Miss  Dorothy  had  turned  herself  into 
Miss  Phyllis,  Miss  Phyllis  that  was  dead  had  been  called 
Mrs.  Derrick,  and  here  was  Miss  Dorothy  apparently  for- 
getting everything  that  had  gone  before  and  signing  her- 
self "Dorothea  Derrick." 

Cresswell  looked  at  her  mistress.  Dorothy  was  deadly 
pale  and  her  eyes  blazed  with  suppressed  excitement. 
Cresswell  began  to  wonder  whether  grief  had  turned  her 
brain. 

"You've  signed  your  sister's  name,  miss,"  she  said  at 
last  in  a  hissing  whisper. 

Dorothy  flushed  angrily  and  made  a  warning  gesture  of 
silence.  She  hoped  Emma  had  not  noted  the  interruption, 
but  Emma  had  raised  her  head  and  stared. 

"You  are  right,  Cresswell,"  Dorothy  said  for  Emma's 
benefit.  "I  never  have  the  thought  of  her  out  of  my  head, 
and  so  I  put  her  name  instead  of  mine.  Never  mind, 
write  your  name  here  as  the  second  witness,  and  I  will 
take  the  list  away  and  alter  the  signature  when  my  head 
aches  less." 

So  Emma  Huddleston  received  her  half-crown  and  de- 
parted, and  Dorothy,  after  dispatching  Cresswell  for  seal- 
ing-wax, carefully  fastened  and  sealed  the  long  envelope 
into  which  she  had  placed  the  will,  and  wrote  outside: 
"The  last  will  and  testament  of  Dorothea  Derrick,  com- 
monly known  as  Dorothy  Knight." 

This  she  placed  in  her  sister's  desk  among  her  letters 
and  papers,  and  forthwith  sat  down  to  answer  the  lawyer's 
letter. 

Mrs.  Darcy  Derrick,  or,  as  she  was  usually  called,  Miss 


Dorothy's  Crime.  245 

Dorothy  Knight,  had  certainly  made  a  will,  she  informed 
Messrs.  Searle  and  Glyn,  and  the  said  will  was  at  the  pres- 
ent moment  securely  lying,  signed,  sealed  and  witnessed, 
in  the  dead  lady's  desk.  She  herself,  Phyllis  Knight,  was 
fully  acquainted  with  the  contents  of  the  same  will,  and  as 
she  was  now  able  to  leave  her  bed,  she  would  be  very  glad 
to  see  the  lawer  and  place  her  sister's  will  in  his  hands,  if 
he  would  call  at  Lockhart  Cottages  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  following  day. 

And  Mr.  Searle,  the  head  of  the  firm,  did  call,  to  find, 
not  the  "silly  little  provincial  actress"  described  to  him  by 
Mr.  Derrick,  but  a  young  gentlewoman  of  extreme  grace 
and  beauty  and  appealing,  tear-laden  gray  eyes.  True, 
her  short-cut  hair  was  evidently  dyed  golden,  as  Darcy 
had  said  it  would  be,  but  there  was  no  other  trace  of  arti- 
ficiality either  in  her  appearance  or  her  manner. 

She  spoke  to  him  with  some  timidity  and  reserve,  and 
while  quick  blushes  chased  each  other  over  her  delicate 
face,  she  briefly  alluded  to  her  sister's  relations  with  her 
husband. 

"I  can't  trust  myself  to  speak  of  this  Mr.  Derrick,"  she 
said.  "The  subject  is  an  intensely  painful  one.  His 
treatment  of  my  sister  was  cruel  and  bad  beyond  belief, 
and  her  illness  and  death  are  indirectly  due  to  him.  I 
must  earnestly  beg  of  you  never  to  let  him  know  my  ad- 
dress or  hold  any  communication  with  me.  Dorothy's 
will  was  made  solely  to  prevent  any  money  she  might 
have  from  falling  into  her  husband's  hands." 

"But  had  she  at  the  time  any  idea  of  inheriting  any 
property?"  Mr.  Searle  inquired,  as  he  sat  facing  her  at 
the  table  with  the  open  will  in  his  hand. 

"Not  the  slightest.  But  she  made  money  by  teaching 
and  painting.  We  had  lived  together  all  our  lives,  and 
loved  each  other  very  dearly." 

Tears  rolled  down  her  face  as  she  spoke.     It  was  im- 


246  Dorothy's  Crime. 

possible  to  doubt  the  genuineness  of  her  love  for  her  dead 
sister,  to  which,  indeed,  even  Darcy  Derrick  had  testified. 

The  old  lawyer  was  touched  and  interested.  Already 
he  had  heard  of  the  Quixotic  generosity  with  which  the 
sisters  had  sacrificed  the  little  fortune  which  would  have 
been  theirs  on  their  father's  death  in  order  to  satisfy  the 
just  claims  of  his  creditors.  He  was  a  wise  old  man  and 
an  excellent  judge  of  character,  and  he  knew  much  to  the 
credit  of  the  lovely,  hardworking  and  unfortunate  sisters, 
and  a  good  deal  to  the  discredit  of  Baron  Derrick's  son. 

He  therefore  treated  Dorothy  with  a  gentle  and  fatherly 
kindness  which  quickly  touched  her  and  made  her  ashamed 
of  the  deception  she  was  forced  to  practice  upon  him.  He 
strongly  approved  of  her  plan  to  leave  Lockhart  Cottages 
immediately  and  stay  in  some  quiet  country  spot  not  too 
far  from  London,  to  recruit  her  strength  before  under- 
taking a  long  sea  voyage. 

"But  from  what  I  heard  from  your  late  aunt  about  your 
brother,  my  dear  young  lady,  I  should  scarcely  advise  you 
to  seek  him  out.  If  he  is  your  sole  inducement  for  visit- 
ing America,  I  should  say  Australia  would  be  a  better 
goal.  You  must  remember  that  you  are  now  a  lady  of 
very  considerable  means,  and  it  would  be  a  great  pity  if 
they  should  be  used  to  defray  the  extravagances  of  ne'er- 
do-weel  relatives.     Forgive  my  frankness." 

"I  am  only  too  glad  to  have  any  one  take  an  interest  in 
me,"  she  said  simply,  and  Mr.  Searle  mentally  decided  that 
this  young  woman  was  as  good  as  she  was  beautiful. 

In  ten  days'  time  she  was  to  return  to  town,  if  suf- 
ficiently strong,  and  to  proceed  to  Messrs.  Searle  and 
Glyn's  office,  in  order  that  they  might  arrange  for  the  fu- 
ture disposal  of  her  property.  Meantime,  she  was  to  send 
them  her  address  from  the  country,  and  to  facilitate  her 
immediate  departure  Mr.  Searle  offered  to  advance  her 


Dorothy's  Crime.  247 

what  money  she  required,  pending  the  necessary  legal 
proving  of  her  claims. 

"I  shall  be  very  glad,  indeed,  for  I  have  hardly  a  shilling 
in  the  world,"  said  his  beautiful  client. 

And  very  early,  very  quietly,  on  the  following  morning, 
Dorothy  and  Cresswell,  closely  veiled  and  in  deep  mourn- 
ing, made  their  way  across  the  waste  ground  to  where  a 
four-wheeled  cab  was  waiting  to  take  them  on  the  first 
stage  of  their  journey.  Each  woman  was  armed  with  a 
few  packages  and  parcels,  but  there  was  no  heavy  lug- 
gage in  attendance  to  suggest  that  they  were  "flitting," 
and  that  Lockhart  Cottages,  their  home  during  the  space 
of  nearly  four  years,  would  see  their  faces  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

AYEMER  TO  THE  RESCUE. 

It  was  past  four  o'clock  on  a  foggy  Friday  afternoon  in 
March,  nine  days  after  the  sudden  departure  of  Dorothy 
and  Cresswell  from  Lockhart  Cottages,  as  Aylmer  Read, 
chief  sub-editor  of  the  Daily  Post,  left  the  Fleet  street  of- 
fice of  that  journal  with  an  unusually  troubled  and  anxious 
expression  on  his  handsome  countenance. 

"Phyllis  Knight,"  he  muttered  to  himself  reflectively, 
pulling  the  ends  of  his  yellow  mustache.  "There  can 
hardly  be  two  Phyllis  Knights,  both  tall  and  gray-eyed  and 
fair-haired,  and  formerly  residing  in  the  Hammersmith 
district.  I  wish  to  heaven  I  could  contrive  to  communi- 
cate with  her  in  some  way.  I  always  knew  I  should  hear 
of  her  again,  but  I  never  thought  it  would  be  like  this.  By 
to-morrow  morning  she  will  have  seen  the  warning — but 
there  is  always  to-night,  and  the  force  are  anxious  to  vin- 
dicate their  character  for  intelligence  after  their  fiasco  in 
the  Monro  affair  last  month.  Of  course  some  terrible 
mistake  has  been  made — but  what  a  proud  and  sensitive 
nature  such  as  hers,  the  shock  and  publicity  will  be  cruelly 
hard  to  bear.  And  what  in  the  world  has  become  of  that 
contemptible  cur,  her  husband,  Sergius  Trevelyan?" 

From  which  soliloquy  it  will  be  understood  that  during 
the  eight  months  which  had  elapsed  since  he  had  last  be- 
held her  Aylmer  Read  had  by  no  means  forgotten  the  lady 
who  had  once  been  his  fellow  student  in  the  British  Mu- 
seum sculpture  galleries. 

In  a  locked  desk  at  his  present  home  there  lay  two 


Aylmer  to  the  Rescue.  349 

dozen  portraits  of  "Miss  Phyllis  Knight,"  which  he  had 
bought  in  the  belief  that  they  were  meant  to  represent 
Dorothy,  and  had  found  singularly  unflattering  and  un- 
satisfactory. 

Not  only  were  Dorothy's  features  more  regularly  beau- 
tiful than  those  of  her  unhappy  sister,  but  in  the  soft,  ap- 
pealing prettiness  of  the  latter  there  had  been  no  trace  of 
the  force  of  character,  the  swift  intelligence,  or  the  pas- 
sionate impulsiveness,  which  a  close  observer  might  have 
read  in  the  face  of  the  elder  sister. 

Very  often  in  his  leisure  moments  Aylmer  Read  had 
spread  the  twenty-four  photographs  out  before  him  and 
had  endeavored,  for  the  most  part  vainly,  to  reconcile  them 
with  his  memory  of  the  sunny-haired  girl,  with  the  firmly- 
closed  lips  and  changing  gray  eyes,  whom  he  had  chosen 
to  set  up  in  his  heart  as  his  ideal  of  womanhood. 

Remembering  her  little  scornful  speeches,  her  avowed 
determination  to  dispense  with  the  sentimental  admiration 
of  men,  and  that  proud  reserye  of  manner  which  was  but  a 
cloak  for  her  natural  girlish  high  spirits  and  a  certain  de- 
mure, dainty  coquetry  which  characterized  her,  Aylmer 
had  tried  by  the  hour  to  trace  in  her  many  different  photo- 
graphs something  of  the  personality  which  had  so  strongly 
attracted  him.  He  found,  however,  in  them  nothing  but 
a  pretty  woman,  prettier  in  some  than  in  others,  a  tender, 
clinging,  gentle,  creature,  but  never  his  "Diana  the  Dis- 
dainful" of  the  sculpture  galleries,  who  had  rippled  into 
laughter  over  his  bad  drawing,  had  thawed  into  friend- 
ship on  their  last  walk  home  from  the  Grassmarket 
Theatre,  and  who  had  from  that  moment  disappeared  so 
mysteriously  from  his  ken. 

He  had  even  bought  and  studied  theatrical  papers,  and 
had  found  and  tracked  the  progress  of  more  than  one 
actress  named  Knight,  and,  among  others,  of  a  Dorothy  of 
that  ilk,  who  for  a  period  of  six  weeks  had  played  with 


250  Aylmer  to  the  Rescue. 

Mr.  Darcy's  "Love's  Right"  company,  in  various  seaside 
towns  during  the  preceding  year.  But  there  was  nothing 
to  lead  him  to  connect  Dorothy  Knight  with  Phyllis 
Knight,  or  to  teach  him  that  the  "Dorothea  Knight,  aged 
twenty-one,  orphan  daughter  of  Harold  Everett  Knight, 
formerly  of  Petersham  Lodge  and  the  Stock  Exchange," 
who  about  Christmas  time  had  been  several  times  re- 
quested in  the  Daily  Post  and  other  papers  to  communi- 
cate with  Messrs.  Searle  and  Glyn,  was  identical  with 
the  "Mrs.  Sergius  Trevelyan"  of  the  provincial  photog- 
rapher's letter. 

He  had  thought  of  her  constantly  none  the  less.  The 
meteor-like  suddenness  with  which  she  had  flashed  in  and 
out  of  his  life,  the  glimpse  he  had  had  into  her  hard-work- 
ing, lonely  existence,  the  crystalline  purity  of  her  regard, 
all  these  things  he  had  thought  of  and  remembered  until 
they  had  become  enshrined  as  the  best  part  of  his  inner 
life,  and  his  ideal  love  for  her  had  grown  to  partake  of  the 
nature  of  a  chivalrous  knight's  devotion  to  the  fayre  ladye 
whose  favor  he  bore. 

And  through  it  all  he  was  secretly  certain  he  should  see 
her  again,  and  that  she  was  destined  in  some  way  to  con- 
trol his  life.  Sometimes  he  laughed  at  himself  for  the 
sentimentality  of  such  a  conviction ;  he  reminded  himself 
that  she  had  discouraged  his  advances,  and  that  he  had 
good  reason  to  believe  she  was  the  wife  of  another  man. 
But  this  last  fact  he  was  very  loth  to  accept.  Meantime, 
he  was  biding  his  time,  waiting  until  it  should  please  her 
to  enter  his  life  again,  and  make  demands  upon  the  ser- 
vice of  faithful  love  he  longed  to  lay  at  her  feet. 

And  now  within  the  past  twenty-four  hours  there  had 
come  upon  him,  like  a  thunderclap  out  of  an  untroubled 
sky,  intelligence  that  a  certain  paragraph  inserted  in  the 
issue  of  the  Daily  Post  on  the  previous  day  had  reference 
to  none  other  than  "Phyllis  Knight,  aged  twenty,  fair, 


Aylmer  to  the  Rescue.  251 

gray-eyed,  and  until  very  recently  resident  in  the  Hammer- 
smith district  of  London." 

The  news  had  so  shocked  and  startled  him  that  he  had 
not  been  home  that  night.  At  about  four  a.  m.  he  had  left 
his  office  for  a  journalists'  club,  where  he  had  singled  out 
especially  one  reporter  and  held  a  prolonged  conference 
with  him.  Between  five  and  ten  in  the  morning  he  had 
learned  all  that  other  pressmen  could  tell  him  about  the 
case  in  question,  and  had  snatched  a  troubled  sleep  of  two 
hours  at  the  Wigwam  Club.  Bow  street  was  his  next  re- 
sort, after  he  had  hurriedly  scanned  the  columns  of  the 
morning  papers.  Then,  after  a  hurried,  pefunctory  break- 
fast, he  had  betaken  himself  to  4  Lockhart  Cottages,  which 
he  now,  for  the  first  time,  knew  as  the  home  of  Phyllis 
Knight. 

The  house  was  empty.  Such  a  mean,  sordid  little  home 
he  found  it,  hemmed  in  by  the  bare,  high  walls  of  the 
Board  School  buildings,  hidden  from  the  Hammersmith 
road  by  unsightly  boardings,  in  an  atmosphere  of  dirt  and 
dust,  shouting  and  screaming  children  and  loudly  gos- 
sipping  charwomen  and  laundresses. 

Clearly  something  was  known  or  guessed  in  the  neigh- 
borhood concerning  the  mystery  which  overhung  No.  4, 
and  Aylmer  had  little  difficulty  in  engaging  in  conversa- 
tion a  voluble  lady  with  rolled-up  sleeves  and  red  elbows, 
who  freely  confided  to  him  her  opinion  as  to  the  late 
dwellers  in  the  cottage. 

"Them  two  Knights  was  real  ladies,  there  wasn't  any 
doubt  o'  that.  They  kep'  themselves  to  themselves,  but 
I'm  not  one  to  blame  them  for  that.  The  person  I  couldn't 
abide  was  that  there  old  parrot-faced  servant.  You  take 
my  word  for  it,  sir,  if  something  mysterious-like  comes 
out  about  that  there  'ouse,  Mrs.  Cresswell's  at  the  bottom 
of  it.  It  ain't  no  good  trying  to  persuade  me  as  some- 
thing isn't  up.     Pleecemen  in  plain  clothes  and  pleece- 


252  Aylmer  to  the  Rescue. 

men's  boots  as  yer  carn't  mistake,  don't  go  'anging  about 
an  'ouse  if  something  ain't  wrong.  Lor'  bless  you,  sir,  I 
can  see  as  far  through  a  brick  wall  as  most,  and  if  ever  a 
woman  deserved  burning  alive  as  a  witch  it's  that  there 
conceited,  scowling,  disagreeable  old  woman,  the  Knight's 
servant,  Cress  well." 

In  the  gathering  fog  and  gloom  Aylmer  gazed  at  the 
empty  house  with  the  close-drawn  blinds,  fascinated  by 
the  thought  that  here  she  had  lived,  she  whose  beauty  and 
refinement  would  have  graced,  as  he  told  himself,  the 
palace  of  a  queen.  The  demonstrative  curiosity  of  the 
neighbors  drove  him  at  length  from  the  spot,  and  strolling 
round  the  block,  comprising  the  four  semi-detached  dwell- 
ing places,  he  made  his  way  to  the  back,  and  stared  into 
the  garden  through  the  iron  spikes  surmounting  a  portion 
of  the  wall. 

As  he  did  so  he  became  aware  of  the  figure  of  a  man 
lurking  round  the  corner  of  the  first  of  the  cottages, 
clearly  intent  on  watching  him.  Aylmer  had  already  sur- 
mised that  some  sort  of  guard  was  being  kept  on  the 
house,  but  for  reasons  of  his  own  he  was  extremely  curi- 
ous to  ascertain  for  himself  the  identity  of  this  particular 
spy.  He  loitered  about,  therefore,  for  some  moments  in 
the  fog,  and  deliberately  lighted  his  pipe  and  stopped  a 
passing  errand-boy  to  ask  the  way  to  the  Fulham  road. 
As  soon  as  he  had  received  the  information  he  turned  as 
though  to  walk  in  that  direction,  and  then  suddenly 
doubling,  found  himself,  as  he  intended,  face  to  face  with 
the  person  who  had  been  noting  his  movements. 

The  man  whom  he  so  unexpectedly  faced  was  clearly 
not  an  ordinary  detective.  A  slim,  gracefully  built,  well- 
dressed  man,  very  pale,  with  vividly  red  lips  under  a 
slight  golden  mustache,  and  large  melancholy  blue  eyes 
under  curled  black  lashes — altogether  an  exceptionally 


Aylmer  to  the  Rescue.  253 

attractive-looking  personage,  and  yet  Aylmer  Read  chose 
instantly  to  dislike  him  with  surprising  intensity. 

The  man  apologized,  in  a  crltured  and  melodious  voice, 
for  colliding  with  him,  and  with  an  interchange  of  hat- 
lifting  the  pair  parted. 

"Now  who  in  the  world  is  that  big  fellow?"  Darcy  Der- 
rick asked  himself,  as  he  watched  Mr.  Read's  retreating 
figure.  "Can  Phyllis  have  consoled  herself  in  my  absence 
with  another  lover?  Evidently  he  is  interested  in  the 
place  from  the  way  in  which  he  stared  about  and  asked 
questions.  The  infernal  publicity  the  press  gives  to  every- 
thing is  dead  against  the  interests  of  justice." 

"I  wonder  who  that  pallid,  effeminate-looking  beast 
with  the  red  lips  was,"  mused  Aylmer  Read.  "Certainly 
has  was  skulking  about  for  no  good.  Heaven  send  the 
poor  child  does  not  run  home  straight  into  the  trap  laid 
for  her!" 

Going  home  to  Regent's  Park,  where  he  now  resided, 
was  clearly  out  of  the  question  in  his  present  state  of 
restless  anxiety,  and  Mr.  Read  repaired  again  to  the 
offices  of  the  Daily  Post  to  ascertain  whether  any  news 
had  come  in  during  his  absence.  Meantime  the  fog  thick- 
ened to  what  is  known  as  a  "London  particular,"  and  a 
drizzling  rain  began  to  fall.  As  the  afternoon  wore  on 
Aylmer's  agitation  increased  until,  unable  to  keep  in  one 
place,  he  sallied  out  to  study  the  contents'  bills  of  the 
evening  papers.  Through  the  slippery  mud  of  Fleet  street 
and  the  Strand  he  passed  down  to  the  Wigwam  Club  in 
its  quiet  terrace  overlooking  the  Embankment.  He  had 
meant  to  wait  there  awhile  until  the  later  editions  of  the 
evening  sheets  were  out.  But  hardly  had  the  doors  of 
the  club  smoking-room  swung  to  behind  him  when  an 
overpoweringly  strong  impulse  made  him  suddenly  turn 
and  leave  the  house,  walking  rapidly  in  the  direction  of 
Villiers  street. 


254  Aylmer  to  the  Rescue. 

Before  the  underground  Charing  Cross  Station,  he  ex- 
plained to  himself,  he  would  be  able  to  buy  more  papers, 
and  that,  of  course,  was  his  reason  for  directing  his  steps 
thither.  But  hardly  had  he  turned  from  John  street  into 
the  steep  descent  of  Villiers  street  when  he  knew  beyond 
a  doubt  why  he  had  come. 

For  walking  swiftly  toward  the  Strand,  with  free, 
swinging  step,  clothed  in  deep  mourning  and  closely 
veiled,  was  the  woman  whose  image  wholly  absorbed  his 
thoughts  and  whom,  with  all  the  strength  of  love  and  will, 
he  most  longed  to  see. 

He  knew  her  instantly  before  she  lifted  her  veil  and 
showed  her  face,  paler  and  thinner  than  he  had  known  it, 
but  to  Aylmer  unutterably  sweet  and  appealing.  Before 
any  other  passer  by  had  time  to  note  its  beauty,  he  was 
by  her  side  and  had  drawn  her  hand  through  his  arm. 

"Lower  your  veil  instantly,"  he  said  in  very  low,  au- 
thoritative tones.  "I  am  Aylmer  Read,  your  friend.  You 
must  do  everything  I  tell  you  and  trust  me  wholly." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

HIS     I,  I  E  G  fi     I,  A  D  Y. 

Too  much  astonished  to  resist  at  first,  Dorothy  allowed 
Aylmer  to  lead  her  across  the  road  and  assist  her  into  a 
four-wheeled  cab,  which  he  at  once  chartered. 

Not  until  he  had  given  the  direction :  "Regent  street ; 
drive  slowly !"  and  the  vehicle  had  begun  to  move,  did  she 
emerge  from  her  stupefaction  at  his  behavior,  and  proceed 
to  question  him  upon  it. 

"Mr.  Read,  what  does  all  this  mean?  I  am  not  going 
to  Regent  street !  I  have  to  keep  an  appointment  with  my 
lawyers  in  Buckingham  street,  Strand.  Please  stop  this 
cab  at  once.    I  insist." 

"Wait,  please !  You  say  you  have  to  keep  an  appoint- 
ment.   Do  your  lawyers  expect  you?" 

"Most  certainly.  I  wrote  to  them  last  night,  saying  I 
would  call  between  half-past  four  and  five  to-day." 

"Giving  them  your  address?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment. 

"No,"  she  said  at  last.  "I  did  not  give  them  the  address 
where  I  have  been  staying  for  the  past  few  days.  It  was 
not  necessary,  and — and  I  did  not  want  to  have  it  known. 
But  all  this  really  cannot  concern  any  one  who  is  almost  a 
stranger  to  me " 

"It  interests  me  because  I  am  your  friend.  You  must 
let  me  be  that,  Miss  Knight.  You  are  in  great — in  seri- 
ous danger." 

"What  danger?" 


256  His  Liege  Lady. 

"Have  you  seen  the  newspapers  at  that  place  where 
you  have  been  staying?" 

"The  newspapers?"  she  repeated,  wonderingly.  "Oh, 
dear  no!  I  have  been  staying  in  a  cottage  a  long  way 
from  any  town,  and  all  I  cared  for  was  quiet.  My  land- 
lord could  not  read,  and  my  old  servant,  who  stayed  with 
me,  is  not  much  more  of  a  scholar  than  he ;  and  I  was  ill 
— very  ill — for  the  first  few  days.  Why  do  you  ask  me 
all  these  questions?  My  time  is  most  valuable.  I  have 
left  my  old  servant  in  the  waiting  room  at  the  station, 
and  as  soon  as  my  business  with  the  lawyer  is  settled 
we  start  for  Liverpool.    To-morrow  we  sail  for  America." 

"Miss  Knight,"  he  said,  striving  to  keep  his  agitation 
out  of  his  voice,  "all  your  plans  must  be  altered.  Some- 
thing very  serious  has  taken  place  during  your  absence. 
Have  you  any  reason  for  believing  you  have  an  enemy?" 

She  started  violently;  her  whole  manner  changed  and 
became  intensely  nervous  and  excited. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  in  trembling  tones,  "I  have  indeed 
an  enemy — a  man  I  hate  and  fear!  Has  he  found  me 
out?" 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  dread  in  her  tones.  Even 
Aylmer's  vigorous  faith  in  her  received  a  slight  shock. 

"You  have  guessed  what  his  action  is  likely  to  be, 
then?"  he  said  anxiously. 

"I  know  his  hideous  wickedness,  and  that  he  would 
move  heaven  and  earth  to  get  me  into  his  power.  I 
thought  I  had  provided  against  everything.  But  if  he  is 
really  on  my  track  there  is  all  the  more  reason  why  I 
should  leave  England  at  once.  I  can  go  to  Buckingham 
street  in  this  cab " 

"That  is  impossible.  I  see  you  don't  understand.  Your 
lawyer's  office  is  as  much  out  of  the  question  as  Liverpool. 
There  is  a  warrant  out  for  your  arrest,  and  by  to-morrow 
morning  a  minute  description  of  your  appearance  and 


His  Liege  Lady.  257 

that  of  your  servant  Cresswell  will  be  published  in  every 
newspaper  in  England." 

"My  arrest!"  she  faltered.    "For  what?" 

"On  a  charge  of  murder !" 

"Murder!" 

She  had  supposed  that  her  personation  of  her  sister  had 
been  discovered,  and  that  the  forging  of  her  own  will  and 
falsification  of  the  date  was  in  some  way  to  be  brought 
home  to  her.  But  at  the  ugly  word  he  uttered  she  felt 
nothing  but  amazement,  and  she  repeated  it,  stupefied,  be- 
fore she  could  realize  its  meaning.  Then  her  thoughts 
flew  to  Darcy  Derrick. 

"But  I  did  not  kill  him !"  she  exclaimed.  "I  suppose  I 
meant  to,  but  he  was  hardly  hurt  at  all,  only  stunned. 
And  I  saw  him  with  my  own  eyes  on  the  night  when  my 
dear  sister  died.  Why,  I .  brushed  past  him,  almost 
touched  him " 

"You  are  making  a  mistake.  It  is  no  man  you  are  ac- 
cused of  murdering,  but  your  sister  Dorothea." 

He  knew  that  his  suddeness  and  abruptness  must  sound 
brutal,  but  time  was  precious.  Already  the  cab  had 
reached  Piccadilly  Circus,  and  he  had  no  time  to  choose 
his  words. 

Dorothy  remained  silent  for  a  few  seconds.  The  news 
seemed  to  stun  her ;  she  could  not  realize  its  possibility. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ?"  she  asked  at  last 
in  a  whisper,  hardly  audible  over  the  rumble  of  the  cab 
wheels.  "That  I  am  accused  of  murdering  my  sister,  for 
whom  I  would  at  any  time  have  given  my  life?  If  it  were 
not  so  dreadful  I  should  laugh  at  such  a  thing." 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  upon  her 
two  hands  clinched  in  her  lap.  "And  of  course  you  will 
face  and  disprove  so  monstrous  and  wicked  a  charge.  But 
you  had  to  know  of  it,  and  that  was  why  I  stopped  you. 
If  you  go  from  here  straight  to  your  lawyer's  office,  as 


258  His  Liege  Lady. 

you  proposed,  you  will  certainly  be  at  once  arrested,  for 
your  lawyer  has,  without  doubt,  been  communicated  with. 
The  warrant  for  your  arrest  and  that  of  Mrs.  Cresswell 
on  the  charge  of  willfully  murdering  Dorothea  Derrick  on 
February  23,  at  4  Lockhart  Cottages,  was  applied  for  and 
granted  yesterday  afternoon." 

"But  I  was  not  even  in  the  house  when  my  sister  died," 
cried  Dorothy,  while  tears  rolled  down  her  face  at  the 
remembrance.  "Her  heart  was  terribly  weakened  by  her 
illness,  and  she  died  of  heart  disease.  Dr.  Wentworth  at- 
tended her,  and  before  then  Dr.  Morgan.  They  both 
know  that  such  a  charge  would  be  ridiculous  if  it  were 
not  so  hideous!  I  must  see  Mr.  Searle,  my  lawyer,  at 
once,  and  get  him  to  put  a  stop  to  this  insane  charge " 

"I'm  afraid  things  have  gone  too  far  for  that.  You  see 
— I  can't  bear  to  tell  you — but  you  are  liable  to  arrest  at 
any  moment,  as  is  your  old  servant.  It  is  only  by  chance, 
aided,  perhaps,  by  this  fog,  that  you  have  come  up  to 
town  in  safety.  Of  course,  you  will  be  able  to  answer 
such  an  outrageous  accusation  fully.  Do  you  suppose 
that  I  doubt  that  for  a  moment?  But  I  wanted  you  to 
hear  it  first  from  the  lips  of  a  friend." 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  simply. 

She  was  hardly  listening,  being  absorbed  in  her  own 
thoughts.  After  a  few  moments  of  silence  she  said  sud- 
denly, in  low  tones  of  intense  conviction: 

"I  cannot  face  the  charge." 

He  would  not  doubt  her  for  an  instant.  He  waited  a 
few  seconds  for  the  explanation  which  did  not  come,  and 
then  said  gently : 

"Sooner  or  later  you  will  have  to  do  so." 

"I  cannot,"  she  returned  wildly.  "I  cannot  face  that 
man  Derrick !  It  is  he  who  has  started  this  vile  story,  is 
it  not?" 


His  Liege  Lady.  259 

"Yes.  He  has  also  applied  to  the  Home  Secretary  for 
an  order  to  exhume  the  body  of  your  sister." 

She  gave  a  sharp  cry. 

"My  sister !  Oh,  horrible !  Surely,  surely  such  a  thing 
cannot  be  allowed?" 

"The  exhumation  will,  I  believe,  take  place  to-morrow." 

"My  God!"  she  cried,  sinking  back  in  the  cab  and 
wringing  her  hands  in  despair.  "What  shall  I  do?  How 
can  I  prevent  such  a  horrible  desecration  ?  Do  you  know 
this  man  Derrick?" 

"No." 

"He  killed  my  sister — oh,  he  cannot  be  punished  for  it 
— it  was  not  open  murder.  He  ruined  her,  deserted  her 
and  broke  her  heart,  then  he  turned  his  hateful  attentions 
to  me" — she  grew  hot  under  her  veil  at  the  remembrance 
— "under  an  assumed  name.  When  I  found  out  who  he 
really  was  I  tried  to  kill  him.  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  done  so ! 
But  he  is  too  wicked  to  kill.  It  is  gentle,  unselfish  crea- 
tures like  my  sister  who  suffer,  not  vile  things  such  as 
he !  But  I  can't  talk  of  him  and  I  can't  talk  of  her !  All 
these  things  you  have  told  me  are  too  dreadful.  I  feel  as 
though  my  brain  were  bursting." 

She  put  up  her  hands  to  her  head  with  a  little  helpless 
gesture.  She  had  thrown  up  her  veil,  and  in  the  dim, 
foggy  afternoon  light  he  could  see  that  she  was  lividly 
pale  and  that  her  eyes  were  distended  in  a  despairing 
stare.  His  heart  ached  for  her,  and  he  longed  to  com- 
fort her,  but  he  knew  not  how.  Nevertheless,  the  friendly 
accents  of  his  voice  soothed  her  and  she  listened  docilely 
to  his  words. 

"You  are  not  fit  for  any  more  disturbing  experiences 
to-day,"  he  said  with  kind  authoritativeness.  "Our  cab- 
man is  clearly  getting  tired  of  driving  up  and  down  Re- 
gent street  and  some  decision  must  be  come  to  at  once. 


260  His  Liege  Lady. 

Do  you  wish  to  avoid  arrest,  or  will  you  face  the  whole 
thing  and  prove  its  falseness  now  ?" 

She  moved  her  head  restlessly. 

"I  have  told  you,"  she  said  with  a  touch  of  impatience, 
"that  whatever  happens  I  cannot  and  will  not  face  that 
man.     I  would  rather  kill  myself.'' 

He  saw  that  she  was  trembling  all  over,  and  he  dared 
not  press  the  point  in  her  present  agitated  condition. 

"And  Cresswell  ?"  he  said.  "If  you  wish  to  avoid  arrest 
you  and  she  must  not  be  seen  together." 

"She  can  be  sent  to  her  sister's  at  Acton,  or  back  to  her 
brother's  cottage  at  Ham." 

"Was  it  from  Ham  that  you  wrote  to  the  lawyer  yes- 
terday?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  the  postmark  might  be  a  guide  to  her  hiding 
place.    She  had  better  go  to  Acton." 

"I  will  send  her  there  at  once.  Please  turn  the  cab 
back  to  the  station." 

Aylmer  obeyed,  and  almost  in  silence  the  pair  drove 
back  whence  they  had  come.  Just  inside  the  door  of  the 
underground  station  Mr.  Reade  detected  through  the  fog 
the  small,  insignificant  figure  of  Cresswell.  Going  to  her, 
he  told  her  briefly  that  her  mistress  was  in  a  cab  waiting 
to  speak  to  her,  and  led  her  to  the  spot.  A  few  hurried 
directions,  the  transfer  of  some  money  from  Dorothy's 
purse  to  that  of  Creswell,  and  the  latter  was  piloted  by 
the  tall,  young  man,  whom  she  supposed  to  be  "one  of 
her  mistress's  lawyers,"  down  the  station  steps,  on  to  the 
platform  and  into  the  Acton  train,  the  tall  young  man 
having  taken  her  ticket  for  that  place. 

"I  want  to  tell  you,"  Dorothy  said  when  he  returned  to 
her,  "that  I  have  been  thinking  deeply.  And  if  this — this 
horrible  desecration  of  which   you   told  me — is  to  take 


His  Liege  Lady.  261 

place  to-morrow,  I  must  find  some  safe  hiding  place  until 
it  is  all  over  and  I  know  what  is  going  to  happen." 

Clearly,  she  dreaded  the  exhumation  of  her  sister's 
body.  It  was  not  alone  her  love  and  reverence  for  the 
memory  of  the  dead  which  drove  the  blood  from  her 
cheeks  and  lips  and  brought  into  her  eyes  that  strange, 
hunted  look  of  fear.  She  was  afraid  of  the  consequences 
of  the  exhumation  to  the  full  as  much  as  she  was  horri- 
fied by  the  proposed  desecration  of  the  dead  girl's  resting 
place.  But  Aylmer  was  vowed  to  her  service  and  resolved 
to  believe  in  her  spotless  innocence  even  if  she  should  by 
her  own  mouth  cast  doubt  upon  it. 

"After  to-morrow,"  she  went  on  in  the  same  restless 
way,  "I  shall  know  what  to  do.  But  until  to-morrow  I 
must  hide  myself." 

The  dread  in  her  mind  was  that  her  personation  of  her 
sister  might  be  discovered  by  Darcy  Derrick  when  Phyllis' 
dead  body  was  brought  to  the  light  of  day.  She  felt  sick 
and  faint  with  horror  at  the  thought.  To  escape  from 
him,  to  conceal  herself  had  become  her  fixed  desire  and 
determination,  and  the  hideous  ceremony  of  the  morrow, 
if  it  did  not  reveal  her  secret,  would,  at  least,  so  she  sup- 
posed, demonstrate  the  monstrous  falseness  of  the  charge 
brought  against  her  by  the  malice  and  disappointed  greed 
of  Darcy  Derrick. 

She  had  little  doubt  that  he  had  started  this  persecution 
in  order  to  revenge  himself  upon  the  woman  who  had 
come  between  him  and  the  fortune  which  would  have 
been  his  had  his  wife  died  intestate.  She  did  not  for  a 
moment  suppose  that  even  Darcy  would  really  believe 
Phyllis  capable  of  so  foul  a  crime  as  her  sister's  murder. 
Phyllis,  from  whom  he  had  received  nothing  but  tender- 
ness and  love.  That  he  should  have  dared  to  call  in  the 
law  to  assist  his  scheme  of  mean  and  cruel  revenge  seemed 
to  Dorothy  another  proof  that  he  was,  as  she  had  more 


262  His  Liege  Lady. 

than  once  thought,  a  dangerous  madman.  Herein  she  was 
mistaken.  The  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick  was  as  sane  as  a 
man  of  diseased  egotism,  overweening  vanity,  absolute 
selfishness  and  entire  lack  of  moral  sense  can  be.  His  aim 
in  life  was  to  cultivate  enjoyable  sensations,  and  there  are 
very  many  enjoyable  sensations  to  be  cultivated  on  ten 
thousand  a  year.  Still,  it  was  hardly  likely  that  Dorothy 
would  look  upon  this  matter  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
man  she  had  married,  and  her  horror  of  Darcy,  which 
already  approached  the  nature  of  a  monomania,  acquired 
an  even  more  passionate  significance  as  she  reflected  that 
he  believed  himself  to  be  thus  torturing  and  hunting 
down,  not  the  woman  who  had  scorned  and  fled  from  him, 
but  her  sister,  who  had  given  him  her  whole  heart,  had 
lived  with  him  as  his  wife,  and  had  become  the  mother 
of  his  child. 

"It  will  be  all  cleared  to-morrow,"  she  said  to  Aylmer. 
"This  mad  and  wicked  persecution,  I  mean.  But  that  man 
and  I  must  not  meet.    Where  can  I  go  ?" 

The  absolute  confidence  with  which  she  turned  toward 
him  and  asked  this  question  touched  Aylmer  deeply. 
They  were  drawing  westward  again,  but  she  had  not 
heard  the  direction  he  had  given  to  the  cabman.  The 
vehicle  proceeded  very  slowly,  the  fog  having  grown  more 
dense,  and  through  the  thick  air  sound  came  to  them, 
muffled  in  the  transit. 

"I  have  been  thinking,  also,"  he  said,  "and  until  this 
terrible  affair  is  settled,  if  you  are  determined  to  remain 
in  hiding,  I  know  no  better  shelter  for  you  than  my  own 
roof.  When  I  first  met  you  I  was  living  in  bachelor 
rooms,  but  a  little  before  Christmas  an  aunt  of  mine — 
a  kindly  and  good-natured  woman  with  whom  I  some- 
times stayed  as  a  boy  at  her  house  in  Croydon — lost  her 
husband,  and,  with  him,  the  chief  support  of  herself  and 
her  daughter.     So  they  took  pity  on  my  loneliness,  and 


His  Liege  Lady.  263 

keep  house  for  me  in  St.  John's  Wood,  Ashgrove  Road, 
where  our  home  is.  This  will  be  the  quietest  and  most 
out-of-the-way  spot  you  can  wish  for,  and  I  shall  know 
you  are  safe.  Being  in  a  newspaper  office,  I  can  collect 
all  news  for  you,  and  no  one  will  dream  of  looking  for 
you  there." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she  looked  up 
quickly. 

"Surely,"  she  said,  "it  would  injure  you  if  I  were  found 
in  your  house.  Remember  who  I  am — a  woman  accused 
of  murder,  and  who  dares  not  face  her  accuser — a  stran- 
ger to  you " 

"Long  ago,"  he  said,  interrupting  her,  "I  knew  you 
would  want  my  help  some  day.  There  is  nothing  I  would 
not  do  for  you." 

His  tone  was  very  quiet,  but  his  words  startled  her. 

"Please,  please  have  no  illusions,  no  mistakes  in  my 
case,"  she  said;  "and,  above  all,  no  sentiment.  All  that 
is  out  of  the  question  with  me." 

"I  know  it.  I  know  that  you  are  married,  and  the 
name  of  your  husband." 

"His  name?" 

"Sergius  Trevelyan.  I  will  tell  you  some  other  time 
how  I  found  these  things  out.  They  will  have  nothing 
to  do  with  my  offer,  my  entreaty,  that  you  will  come  and 
stay  with  us  for  a  little  while,  until  you  can  see  your  way 
more  clearly." 

"But  the  others,  your  aunt  and  cousin,  they  are  women, 
and  I  think  women  are  more  suspicious  than  men.  They 
would  surely  not  welcome  and  conceal  a  woman  who  is  a 
perfect  stranger  to  them  and  accused  of  a  terrible  crime?" 

"They  will  do  just  as  I  tell  them.  They  are  not  either 
of  them  clever,  and  they  are  both  very  kind.  But  my 
plan  is  that  you  come  as  the  widow  of  a  fellow  press- 
man, a  former  colleague  of  mine.     My  aunt  and  cousin 


264  His  Liege  Lady. 

never  saw  either  him  or  his  wife,  and  knew  nothing  of  my 
life  at  Clofield,  where  he  was  associated  with  me.  His 
name  was  Philip  Ransome ;  he  left  Clofield  for  Richmond 
Surrey,  five  years  ago,  married  there,  and  has  now  been 
dead  three  years.  He  died  of  heart  disease  after  one  year 
of  married  life,  and  his  widow,  a  very  handsome  woman, 
whom  I  only  met  two  or  three  times,  is  now,  I  believe, 
teaching  in  Germany.  You  shall  be  Mrs.  Philip  Ran- 
some.    My  aunt  and  cousin  will  not  question  you. 

"I  shall  tell  them  I  met  you  in  Villiers  street,  coming 
up  from  the  country  for  a  few  days'  change ;  that  you  had 
been  very  ill,  and  that  as  you  knew  no  one  in  town  and 
could  not  tell  where  to  go,  I  invited  you  to  stay  with  us. 
Mrs.  Ransome  had  been  a  governess  and  was  not  well  off. 
My  aunt  has  heard  me  speak  of  her  on  several  occasions. 
Now  that  is  all  settled,  and  here  we  are  at  Baker  street, 
as  far  as  I  can  see  through  the  fog.  Before  we  arrive 
at  Ashgrove  Road  you  must  imperatively  change  your 
dress.  That  heavy  mourning  will  be  mentioned  in  the 
description  of  you  published  in  to-morrow's  papers.  We 
must  go  back  to  one  of  those  big  shops  and  buy  you  some- 
thing different." 

He  made  her  stay  in  the  cab  while  he  got  out,  and,  fol- 
lowing her  directions,  laid  out  some  money  for  her  in  a 
long,  fawn-colored  traveling  cloak,  with  three  capes,  a 
high  collar  and  deep  "highwayman"  pockets  and  cuffs. 
Even  at  this  critical  moment  Dorothy's  taste  for  the  pic- 
turesque in  dress  did  not  desert  her.  Her  small,  crape- 
trimmed  bonnet  and  long  crape  veil  she  ruthlessly  sacri- 
ficed, on  Aylmer's  advice,  by  dropping  them  out  of  the 
window  of  the  cab  as  they  drove  along,  and  under  a  wide- 
brimmed,  black  straw  hat,  with  steel  buckles  and  black 
feathers,  her  face,  even  in  the  dim  and  murky  light  thrown 
by  street  lamps  into  the  cab,  looked  wonderfully  fair  and 
attractive. 


His  Liege  Lady.  365 

Aylmer  had  to  be  her  maid  and  her  looking  glass,  and 
to  adjust  her  hat,  help  her  with  her  coat,  and  presently, 
when  a  total  transformation  had  taken  place  in  her  ap- 
pearance, had  to  accompany  her  to  buy  gloves,  and 'even 
to  advi«e  her  as  to  the  color  and  style  of  a  ready-made 
jersey  and  skirt  which,  at  his  suggestion,  she  purchased. 

Standing  by  her  side,  in  the  full  glare  of  the  shop,  he 
could  not  repress  an  exclamation  of  disappointment  when 
he  perceived  that  the  beautiful  gold-brown  hair  he  had 
so  much  admired  was  missing.  Dorothy's  hair  was  now 
cut  short  as  a  boy's,  and  dyed  a  crude  yellow-gold.  She 
caught  the  look  of  dismay  he  directed  at  her  altered  coif- 
fure, and  blushed  deeply. 

"Oh,  it  will  grow  again,"  she  said,  hastily,  answering 
his  look,  "and  the  old  color  will  come  back  when  I  leave 
it  alone." 

He  could  not  help  smiling  at  her  unexpected  naivete. 
But  for  the  terrible  charge  hanging  over  her  this  would 
have  been  to  him  a  time  of  unqualified  joy.  To  have  her 
in  his  care,  trusting  to  him,  appealing  to  his  taste  and 
judgment,  obeying  his  suggestions,  and  turning  the  soft 
brilliancy  of  her  gray  eyes  upon  him  at  every  moment, 
sent  a  delicious  tingle  of  proprietorship  through  him. 
Never  before  had  he  "been  shopping"  with  a  woman. 
There  was  something  supremely  connubial  about  it,  and 
he  found  himself  laying  down  the  law  about  the  cut  of  a 
skirt  and  the  trimming  of  a  hat  as  though  he  had  been 
married  for  years. 

Dorothy  appeared  wholly  to  trust  him.  She  had  been 
in  desperate  need  of  just  such  a  friend  as  this,  loyal,  kind 
and  wise.  She  could  not  afford  to  distrust  him,  nor  did  it 
enter  her  mind  to  do  so. 

Eight  months  had  passed  since  they  had  last  met,  and 
their  acquaintance  had  been  of  the  slightest;  yet  now, 
with  a  secret  upon  which  the  liberty  of  one  of  them  de- 


266  His  Liege  Lady. 

pended,  it  seemed  to  each  perfectly  natural  and  fitting 
that  they  should  be  together  in  close  and  restful  friend- 
ship, friendship  so  complete  that  they  could  talk  together 
or  keep  silence  as  it  best  pleased  them. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said  presently,  as,  laden  with  parcels, 
they  drove  to  a  trunkmaker's  shop  to  choose  a  portman- 
teau for  "Mrs.  Ransome,"  "I  suppose  I  have  gone  shop- 
ping with  you  in  my  dreams.  For  I  have  all  the  while  a 
consciousness  that  we  have  done  all  this  before,  and  that 
it  is  absolutely  natural  that  we  should  be  here  together. 
Does  it  strike  you  like  that?" 

"I  feel  we  were  meant  to  be  friends,"  she  said  more 
guardedly.  "I  can't  talk  much  now.  The  whole  thing 
has  been  such  a  strange  rush.  I  can't  tell  you  how  grate- 
ful I  am  to  you.  I  am  glad  I  have  met  a  man  at  last  who 
is  good  and  honorable.  I  began  to  think  all  men  were 
evil,  after  knowing  Darcy  Derrick." 

He  longed  to  ask  whether  her  husband,  Sergius  Tre- 
velyan,  was  among  the  sheep  or  the  goats,  but  felt  he 
must  not  venture  upon  such  a  leading  question  yet. 

"There  is  one  thing  more,"  he  said  at  last,  "which  must 
certainly  be  worn  by  Mrs.  Ransome.  Pardon  me  for  no- 
ticing it,  but  you  do  not  wear  your  wedding  ring.  Will 
it  not  be  better  to  do  so?" 

"I  threw  it  down  a  railroad  embankment  months  ago," 
she  answered  truthfully.  A  thrill  of  quite  unwarrantable 
satisfaction  passed  through  Aylmer  at  the  news. 

Then  he  said,  trying  to  speak  in  a  hard,  business-like 
manner:  "We  must  buy  another.  My  aunt  would  in- 
stantly notice  such  an  omission." 

A  sudden  wave  of  nervous  self-consciousness  swept 
over  Dorothy,  and  the  color  came  and  went  in  her  cheeks 
as  she  presently  stood  by  Aylmer's  side  in  a  jeweler's  shop 
in  Baker  street,  and  held  out  her  finger  to  be  measured 
for  the  wedding  ring  by  the  smiling  shop  assistant.    To 


His  Liege  Lady.  267 

avoid  exciting  attention  she  was  forced  to  let  Aylmer  pay 
for  it,  and  he  needed  all  his  self-control  to  disguise  the 
strange  delight  with  which  the  purchase  filled  him. 

The  smiling  shopman  bowed  them  out,  interested  in  so 
handsome  a  couple,  and  Aylmer  helped  Dorothy  into  the 
cab  and  sprang  in  opposite  her,  after  giving  the  direc- 
tion: 

"No.  40  Ashgrove  Road,  St.  John's  Wood." 

It  was  past  six  o'clock  by  this  time,  and  too  dark  for 
them  to  see  each  other's  faces.  Aylmer  took  the  little 
parcel  from  his  pocket,  his  heart  thunmping  loudly  the 
while. 

"You  must  wear  this,  you  know,"  he  said  rather 
huskily.  "Had  you  not  better  put  it  on  now,  lest  you 
should  forget  it?" 

"If  you  like,"  she  answered,  trying  hard  to  speak  in 
indifferent  tones. 

His  emotion  affected  her.  The  ungloved  hand  she  held 
out  for  the  ring  was  cold  and  quivering.  He  took  it  ten- 
derly in  his,  and  before  she  could  withdraw  it  slipped  the 
plain  gold  band  on  to  her  third  finger,  lowering  his  head 
so  that  his  yellow  mustache  just  brushed  her  finger  tips. 

She  snatched  her  hand  away,  drawing  her  breath 
quickly. 

"Please  tell  me  how  much  I  owe  you  for  the  ring," 
she  said  in  matter-of-fact  tones. 

"More  than  you  can  repay,"  he  answered  quietly,  "for 
the  services  of  my  life  went  with  it.  No,  don't  start  away, 
Miss  Knight,  I  have  no  intention  of  being  sentimental. 
But  the  fact  that  you  are  out  of  my  reach  cannot  prevent 
me  from  loving  you  or  from  being  all  my  life  your  faith- 
ful servant  and  your  friend." 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

ayi,mer's  household. 

That  little  break  into  sentiment  on  the  part  of  Aylmer 
rather  unnerved  both  him  and  his  companion. 

To  change  the  subject,  she  began  rapidly  asking  ques- 
tions about  his  aunt  and  cousin,  questions  which  he  an- 
swered at  length,  so  that  Dorothy  was  in  some  measure 
prepared  for  the  persons  she  was  likely  to  meet  when  the 
cab  drew  up  before  its  destination  at  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore seven  o'clock. 

It  was  by  this  time  far  too  dark  to  see  more  than  that 
40  Ashgrove  Road  was  fronted  by  a  garden  and  protected 
by  very  high  walls  entered  by  one  of  those  mysterious 
doors  peculiar  to  that  district  of  London,  and  which  are 
provided  with  a  little  shutter  on  the  inside,  so  that  callers 
may  be  surreptitiously  peeped  at  before  being  admitted. 
An  electric  bell  by  the  door  in  the  wall  communicated  with 
the  house,  and  on  Aylmer  pressing  the  bell  three  times  in 
quick  succession  the  door  flew  open,  worked  from  within 
the  house. 

"We  are  safe  enough  here,  as  you  see,"  he  whispered  to 
Dorothy  through  the  cab  window.  "Don't  get  out  until  I 
have  prepared  Aunt  Harriet  to  welcome  you." 

A  short  walk  down  an  asphalt  path  which  intersected 
a  beautifully  kept  garden  led  to  the  house,  a  small,  com- 
pact, low-built  residence,  painted  white  and  covered  with 
trellis-work,  and  with  neatly  trimmed  ivy  and  other  creep- 
ing plants.  The  house  door,  fitted  with  glass  and  veiled 
on  the  inside  by  a  beaded  reed  screen,  flew  open  before 


Aylmer's  Household  269 

he  reached  it,  and  an  extremely  pretty  girl  in  a  high- 
necked  black  silk  dinner-dress  ran  out  to  meet  him. 

"Aylmer!  we  were  getting  in  such  a  state  about  you! 
Where  have  you  been?  Mamma's  cried  herself  into  one 
of  her  headaches.  We  began  to  think  you'd  been  lost  in 
the  fog,  or  run  over,  or  something." 

He  laughed. 

"Surely  I'm  big  enough  to  take  care  of  myself,"  he 
said.  "Besides,  it  isn't  the  first  time  that  business  has 
kept  me  away.  But  where  is  your  mother?  I  have 
brought  a  visitor  with  me." 

"A  visitor  ?     Is  it  a  man  ?" 

"No,  a  lady — Mrs.  Philip  Ransome,  widow  of  one  of 
my  old  colleagues  at  Clofield.  She  has  just  come  up  from 
the  country.  She  has  been  very  ill,  and  knows  no  one 
in  London,  and  asked  me  to  advise  her  where  she  could 
stay  for  a  few  days.  So  I  could  not  do  otherwise  than 
ask  her  here.  I  know  you  and  Aunt  Harriet  will  be  very 
nice  to  her.  She  has  had  a  hard  life  of  late,  and  I  re- 
ceived much  kindness  from  poor  old  Ransome." 

"Mrs.  Ransome!  Oh,  I  have  heard  you  speak  of  her. 
She  is  very  beautiful,  isn't  she?"  . 

Aylmer  knew  there  was  no  surer  way  by  which  a  man 
can  set  one  woman  against  another  than  praising  her 
looks.     So  he  dissimulated. 

"Beauty  is  a  matter  of  taste,"  he  said;  "but  I  believe 
some  people  admire  Mrs.  Ransome.  What  is  more  im- 
portant is  that  she  is  a  very  nice  woman,  and  that  she  is 
sitting  outside  in  the  cab  catching  cold  in  the  fog." 

"I'll  fetch  her  in !"  cried  Rosa,  and  seizing  a  shawl  from 
the  hatstand  she  darted  out,  full  of  curiosity  to  behold  the 
unexpected  guest. 

Dorothy,  quaking  with  apprehension  in  the  cab,  saw  a 
tall,  slight  figure  flitting  down  the  garden  path,  and  heard 
a  sweet,  cordial  girl's  voice  uttering  words  of  welcome. 


270  Aylmer's  Household. 

"Mrs.  Ransome,  I  am  Rosa  Reed ;  no  doubt  my  cousin 
has  told  you  about  mamma  and  me.  We  are  so  delighted 
to  have  you.  Now  do  run  in  with  me  out  of  the  fog. 
Isn't  it  a  fearful  evening?  Don't  speak  or  you  will  catch 
cold!" 

She  led  the  way  into  the  drawing-room  immediately 
on  the  left  of  the  hall,  a  charming,  old-fashioned  apart- 
ment, with  many  unexpected  turns  and  corners,  furnished 
in  homely  comfort  and  excellent  taste;  the  walls  covered 
with  water-color  drawings ;  the  chairs  and  lounges  either 
of  the  roomy,  "saddle-bag"  order  or  of  cushioned  basket- 
work.  The  ceiling  was  low,  colored  a  warm  amber,  and 
prettily  molded;  the  prevailing  tints  in  the  apartment 
were  a  bright  gold  color  and  a  warm  cinnamon-brown. 
Long,  brown  curtains  hung  before  the  wide  French  win- 
dow, which  opened  upon  the  garden  at  the  back,  and  in 
front  of  the  bright  fire  burning  in  the  tiled  fireplace,  a 
fender-stool,  several  cushions  and  a  handsome  fur  rug, 
upon  which  a  bull  terrier  and  a  Persian  kitten  were  en- 
sconced, gave  the  finishing  touches  of  comfort  and  home- 
liness to  the  room. 

Rosa  Read  led  the  visitor  to  the  fire  under  the  pretext 
of  getting  her  warm,  but  in  reality  to  have  a  good  look 
at  her.  Rosa  herself  was  six-and-twenty,  a  charming  rep- 
resentative of  one  kind  of  English  prettiness.  She  was 
not  in  the  least  beautiful,  but  she  was  undeniably  pretty, 
her  delicately-modeled  retrousse  nose,  short  upper  lip  and 
small,  curved  mouth ;  her  bright  complexion,  bluish-gray 
eyes  under  black  lashes  and  dark-brown  hair,  combining 
to  produce  a  very  pleasing  whole. 

Add  to  this  that  Rosa  was  very  good  tempered  and 
affectionate,  that  she  sang  like  a  bird,  and  that  her  speak- 
ing voice  was  sweet  as  any  choir  boy's,  and  it  seemed 
strange  that  in  the  twelve  weeks  since  she  and  her  mother 


Aylmer's  Household.  271 

had  taken  up  their  abode  in  Aylmer's  home  propinquity 
had  not  led,  as  it  usually  does  in  the  case  of  healthy  and 
comely  young  persons  of  opposite  sex,  to  love. 

This  thought  flashed  instantly  into  Dorothy's  mind,  fol- 
lowed by  a  slightly  sore  and  hurt  feeling,  for  which  she 
could  not  account  and  of  which  she  felt  immediately 
heartily  ashamed. 

As  to  Rosa,  she  screwed  up  her  pretty  little  mouth  into 
an  "Oh !"  of  admiration  when  she  beheld  Dorothy  in  the 
full  light. 

"Why,  you  are  perfectly  lovely!"  she  cried  ingenu- 
ously. "And  that  stupid  old  Aylmer  said  something 
about  'some  people  thinking  you  handsome.'  Fancy  your 
having  been  a  widow  three  years !  I  wonder  you  haven't 
been  snapped  up  long  ago.  And  you  look  so  wonderfully 
young,  too — ever  so  much  younger  than  I !" 

"You  don't  look  very  old,"  said  Dorothy,  smiling. 

She  was  so  greatly  relieved  by  the  informal  nature  of 
her  reception  that  Miss  Read's  schoolgirl-like  lack  of 
breeding  did  not  annoy  her  in  the  least.  Besides,  the  girl 
was  so  pretty  and  her  voice  was  so  musical  that  her  blunt- 
ness  and  rather  bouncing  manners  were  easily  condoned. 

"Oh,  I'm  fearfully  old,"  exclaimed  Rosa.  "Do  take 
off  your  gloves  and  warm  your  hands  at  the  fire.  Isn't 
that  a  duck  of  a  cat  ?  I  shall  be  twenty-seven  next  Christ- 
mas. Isn't  it  dreadful?  Quite  an  old  maid  they'd  think 
me  in  France.  And  I'm  always  getting  engaged;  but 
somehow  it  never  comes  to  anything.  Dear  me!  How 
nice  it  is  to  have  some  one  of  my  own  age  to  talk  to.  And 
I  do  so  love  pretty  people.  The  spare  room  is  quite  ready, 
luckily.  Last  week  Aylmer  half  expected  a  man  from 
Clofield,  but  he  didn't  come.  We  were  so  dreadfully  dis- 
appointed. You  can't  think  what  a  break  it  makes  some 
one  coming  to  stay,  especially  a  man — no,  I  don't  mean 


272  Aylmer's  Household. 

that !  Some  women  are  much  nicer  than  men,  and  some 
men  are  perfectly  horrid,  don't  you  think  so?  So  fickle, 
and  never  knowing  their  own  minds  two  minutes  to- 
gether. But  now,  if  you  are  warmer,  you  must  come  up- 
stairs and  take  your  hat  and  coat  off.  Dinner  will  be 
ready  at  seven  and  it  is  nearly  that  now.  We  waited  din- 
ner for  Aylmer;  generally  we  have  it  at  a  quarter  to 
seven,  but  mamma  declared  she  couldn't  eat  a  thing  unless 
we  had  news  of  Aylmer.  I  wonder  what's  become  of 
him?  I  suppose  he's  gone  to  try  and  persuade  her  to 
come  down." 

Little  persuasion  was  necessary.  Curiosity  to  see  Ayl- 
mer's  invited  guest  drove  away  Mrs.  Read's  headache, 
and  soon  as  the  dinner  gong  sounded  Dorothy  descended 
from  the  pretty  little  room  assigned  to  her — all  white 
enameling  and  brightly  flowered  chintz — to  the  dining 
room,  to  which  old  oakchairs  and  mantelpiece  "fitments," 
blue  and  white  tiles  and  china,  and  many  oil  paintings, 
gave  a  touch  of  stateliness,  and  found  Rosa's  mother  in- 
stalled at  the  head  of  the  table. 

Aylmer's  late  uncle  had  married  his  wife  Harriet  partly 
because  she  was  an  excellent,  motherly  body  and  a  good 
manager,  and  chiefly  because  she  was  very  much  in  love 
with  him,  and  a  pretty  girl  had  just  jilted  him.  Most 
fortunately  for  Rosa,  she  inherited  her  father's  good 
looks,  for  Mrs.  Read  was  more  than  usually  plain,  and  her 
constant  habit  of  weeping  did  not  tend  to  improve  her 
appearance. 

Clad  in  widow's  weeds,  of  a  dull,  brickdust  complexion, 
indefinite  features,  and  a  generally  limp,  red-eyed  and  red- 
nosed  appearance,  Mrs.  Read  showed  in  her  manner  of 
greeting  Dorothy  a  womanly  kindness  which  touched  the 
latter  deeply  and  inclined  her  to  overlook  her  unattractive 
exterior. 


Aylmer's  Household.  273 

Mrs.  Read  was  a  great  stickler  for  etiquette.  In  her 
"set"  at  Croydon,  a  set  chiefly  composed  of  clerks'  and 
tradesmen's  wives,  much  punctiliousness  was  observed, 
and  she  began  now  to  elaborately  apologize  for  any  lack 
of  preparation  for  Mrs.  Ransome's  visit. 

"We'd  have  had  the  new  carpet  down  in  the  spare  room 
if  I'd  had  the  least  idea  you  were  coming,"  she  explained 
to  Dorothy.  "If  only  Aylmer  had  telegraphed  we  might 
have  made  some  sort  of  welcome.  But  I  have  been  so 
upset  by  the  fog  and  by  Aylmer's  not  coming  home  that 
it  brought  on  one  of  my  headaches.  Did  you  ever  suffer 
from  headache?" 

"Hardly  ever." 

"Ah!  then  you  can't  tell  how  I  feel.  Since  my  poor, 
dear  husband's  death  the  least  thing  brings  them  on.  It's 
nerves,  the  doctor  says.  My  nerves  were  shattered  by 
the  shock  of  my  poor  Stanley's  death.  There  you  can 
sympathize  with  me,  my  dear,  for  you,  too,  have  lost  a 
good  husband.    You  must  feel  terribly  lonely." 

"Sometimes  I  do,"  Dorothy  said. 

Tears  started  to  her  eyes.  She  was  thinking  of  Phyllis, 
but  Mrs.  Read  not  unnaturally  attributed  this  show  of 
emotion  to  grief  for  the  loss  of  the  late  Mr.  Ransome, 
and  was  touched. 

"You  are  not  like  some  young  widows,  I  see,"  she  said 
approvingly.  "I've  known  them  go  gadding  about  al- 
most before  their  husbands  were  buried.  For  my  part  I 
am  old-fashioned,  and  I  can't  understand  widows  marry- 
ing again.  My  heart  is  in  the  grave  with  my  dear  Stan- 
ley, and  nothing  could  induce  me  to  marry  again." 

She  took  out  a  black-edged  pocket  handkerchief  as  she 
spoke  and  wiped  her  eyes.  She  was  quite  in  earnest  and 
so  utterly  lacking  in  humor  that  it  did  not  seem  to  her 
superfluous  to  assert  that,  being  a  plain  and  penniless 


274  Aylmer's  Household. 

widow  of  fifty-four,  nothing  would  induce  her  to  accept 
a  second  husband. 

More  than  one  pang  of  remorse  shot  through  Dorothy 
as  she  realized  how  unsuspiciously  Mrs.  Read  and  her 
daughter  accepted  her  in  the  character  of  Mrs.  Philip 
Ransome.  Clearly  it  never  entered  into  the  minds  of 
either  lady  to  doubt  Aylmer's  word.  At  the  time  Dorothy 
did  not  guess  how  absolutely  dependent  Aylmer's  aunt 
and  cousin  were  upon  him.  The  late  Mr.  Stanley  Read's 
savings  brought  in  an  income  of  rather  less  than  fifty 
pounds  a  year,  which  was  all  that  stood  between  his 
widow  and  child  and  destitution.  But  Aylmer  was  con- 
stitutionally chivalrous  and  unselfish,  and  really  glad  to 
come  to  the  rescue  of  the  two  helpless  women  and  pro- 
vide a  home  for  them.  At  the  present  moment,  indeed, 
he  was  inclined  to  fall  down  on  his  knees  and  worship 
the  limp,  mildly-weeping  lady  who  presided  at  his  table, 
in  that  she  made  it  possible  for  him  to  offer  shelter  to 
the  woman  he  loved. 

"The  wisest  and  luckiest  thing  I  ever  did  in  my  life," 
he  told  himself,  "was  the  taking  of  this  house  at  the 
Christmas  quarter,  and  installing  Aunt  Harriet  and  Rosa 
here.    But  for  that  how  could  I  have  helped  Phyllis?" 

It  was  all  he  could  do  to  turn  his  eyes  from  his  guest. 
She  was  very  pale,  and  her  eyes  had  not  altogether  lost 
that  startled,  hunted  look  which  had  come  into  them  when 
she  first  heard  of  Darcy's  action  against  her.  She  had 
changed  the  crape-trimmed  gown  she  had  been  wearing 
under  her  long  cloak  for  one  of  the  two  dresses  she  had 
bought  in  Oxford  street — a  silver  gray  silk,  with  a  loose 
bodice  of  steel  embroidery  and  bands  of  rose-color  inser- 
tion. The  costume  had  been  of  Aylmer's  choosing.  He 
was  fond  of  bright,  pretty  colors,  as  are  most  men,  and 
guessed  how  well  the  rose  color  would  harmonize  with 
the  delicate  flesh  tint  of  Dorothy's  complexion.    The  bod- 


Aylmer's  Household.  275 

ice  was  cut  a  little  open  at  the  collar ;  Dorothy's  throat  was 
round  and  full  and  of  a  creamy  fairness. 

On  her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant, 
Like  a  bell-flower  o'er  its  bed. 

The  lines  came  more  than  once  into  Aylmer's  mind  as 
he  watched  her  across  the  table  playing  with  her  food, 
for  she  was  far  too  much  excited  and  too  anxious  to  eat. 

Toward  the  end  of  dinner  a  diversion  came,  the  possi- 
bility of  which  Aylmer  had  overlooked. 

Through  the  thick  outside  air  the  shrill  voice  of  a  boy 
crying  out  the  names  and  contents  of  the  evening  paper 
penetrated  faintly  to  the  room  where  they  were  sitting. 
Aylmer  grew  suddenly  pale  and  glanced  at  Dorothy. 

"I  hope  that  tiresome  boy  won't  forget  my  Evening 
Standard,  as  he  did  the  night  before  last,"  Mrs.  Read  ob- 
served. "I'm  so  much  interested  in  that  Croydon  breach 
of  promise  case  which  is  on  to-day." 

After  dinner  every  evening,  as  Aylmer  remembered 
with  a  thrill  of  apprehension,  Rosa  read  aloud  the  day's 
news  to  her  mother  while  the  latter  knitted  and  dozed. 
Would  the  later  editions  have  any  report  of  the  story 
which  would  be  made  public  on  the  morrow? 

He  was  not  left  long  in  suspense.  In  a  few  seconds  a 
ring  at  the  front  door  bell  preceded  the  entrance  of  the 
parlor  maid,  bringing,  as  was  her  wont,  a  copy  of  the 
Evening  Standard  to  Mrs.  Read,  who  laid  it  by  her  side 
until  dinner  was  finished,  and  then  took  it  with  her  to  the 
drawing  room. 

"Do  you  mind  if  Rosa  reads  the  news  aloud  to  me, 
my  dear?"  she  asked  of  Dorothy. 

The  supposed  Mrs.  Ransome  had  sunk  on  a  cushion  by 
the  fire,  and  was  smoothing  the  fur  of  the  Persian  cat. 
Her  face  was  turned  away  from  Mrs.  Read  and  in  the 


276  Aylmer's  Household. 

direction  of  the  fire  as  she  returned  a  courteous  answer  to 
her  inquiry.  ; 

Mother  and  daughter  took  their  accustomed  places. 
Rosa  in  a  low  basket-work  seat,  and  her  mother  in  her 
favorite  long  arm  chair.  Aylmer  they  had  left  smoking 
a  cigar  in  the  dining  room,  but  anxiety  made  him  pres- 
ently creep  to  the  half-open  door  of  the  drawing  room 
and  listen,  holding  his  breath,  to  Rosa's  bell-like  tones  as 
she  read  aloud  the  Croydon  breach  of  promise  case,  and 
at  'its  conclusion  stopped  to  discuss  it  with  her  mother, 
while  she  scanned  the  columns  of  the  paper  for  anything 
new  or  exciting. 

"Here's  something  that  looks  interesting,"  she  ex- 
claimed at  last.  "The  Hammersmith  mystery.  You  re- 
member, mamma,  there  was  something  about  it  in  last 
night's  paper." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course.  About  two  sisters,  one  accused 
of  killing  the  other,  wasn't  it?" 

"That's  it.  Listen!  'The  Hammersmith  Mystery. — 
As  was  stated  in  our  latest  edition  of  yesterday,  a  war- 
rant has  been  issued  for  the  arrest  of  the  persons  sus- 
pected of  being  concerned  in  the  alleged  murder  at  Lock- 
hart  Cottages.  Sensational  developments  may  be  ex- 
pected. The  deceased  lady,  Mrs.  Derrick,  is  supposed  to 
be  the  same  person  who  was  recently  advertised  for  by  a 
well-known  firm  of  solicitors  under  the  name  of  Dorothea 
Knight,  she  having  become  entitled  to  a  very  considerable 
fortune  under  the  will  of  a  relative.  It  is  now  stated  that 
within  an  hour  of  the  letter  announcing  this  intelligence 
being  received  at  Lockhart  Cottages  on  the  23d  ultimo,  a 
doctor  was  hastily  fetched  by  the  old  servant,  who  is  one 
of  the  suspected  persons.  On  his  arrival  he  found  Mrs. 
Derrick  dead.  Three  days  later,  the  unfortunate  young 
lady,  who  was  only  twenty-one  years  of  age,  was  buried 
in  Brompton  Cemetery.     The  funeral  was  attended  by  her 


Aylmer's  Household.  277 

husband  (Mr.  Derrick)  and  by  a  representative  of  the 
firm  of  solicitors  before  referred  to.  Both  of  these  gen- 
tlemen had  been  refused  admittance  to  the  house  on  the 
pretext  that  Miss  Phyllis  Knight,  sister  to  the  deceased, 
who  with  her  old  servant  was  the  only  other  occupant, 
was  too  ill  to  receive  them.  The  doctor  called  in,  and 
who  signed  the  certificate  of  death  from  heart  disease, 
Was  not  Mrs.  Derrick's  regular  medical  attendant,  and 
had  only  seen  her  on  one  or  two  previous  occasions.  Im- 
mediately after  the  funeral  Miss  Phyllis  Knight  wrote  to 
the  lawyer  claiming  the  whole  of  her  sister's  property,  un- 
der a  will  executed  by  the  deceased  lady  a  month  before 
her  death.  On  the  strength  of  her  representations  she 
procured  a  sum  of  money  in  advance  from  the  solicitors, 
and  immediately  afterward  she  disappeared  from  Lock- 
hart  Cottages  with  her  old  servant,  and  all  trace  of  them 
has  since  been  lost.  Inquiries  made  in  the  neighborhood 
have  brought  to  light  the  fact  that  large  quantities  of 
laundanum  have  been  purchased  from  various  chemists  at 
intervals  during  the  weeks  preceding  Mrs.  Derrick's  death 
by  Miss  Phyllis  Knight.  Under  these  circumstances 
grave  suspicion  rests  upon  the  missing  woman,  for  whose 
arrest,  as  has  been  already  stated,  a  warrant  was  issued 
yesterday.  An  order  for  the  exhumation  of  the  body  has 
been  obtained  from  the  Home  Secretary. 

"The  full  description  of  the  missing  women  is  as  fol- 
lows : 

"  'Maria  Cresswell ;  short,  dark,  elderly  woman ;  age 
about  fifty ;  thin,  sharp  features ;  very  reserved  in  manner ; 
dressed  in  black. 

"'Phyllis  Knight,  aged  twenty;,  very  tall  and  slender; 
short,  dark  hair,  dyed  golden,  dark  eyebrows  and  eye- 
lashes, gray  eyes,  small  features;  very  ladylike  and  pre- 
possessing in  manner  and  appearance.  When  last  seen 
was  dressed  in  deep  mourning.'  " 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 
Dorothy's    confession. 

As  Rosa  finished  reading,  Aylmer,  through  the  half- 
open  door,  gazed  anxiously  in  at  Dorothy. 

He  feared  she  might  faint,  but  Dorothy  was  a  perfectly 
healthy  nineteenth-century  Englishwoman,  and  her  heart 
was  as  physically  sound  as  his  own.  She  did  not  faint, 
but  she  was  as  bad  an  actress  in  private  life  as  she  had 
proved  herself  on  the  stage,  and  so  she  remained,  with 
bent  head,  mechanically  stroking  the  cat's  fur  with  her 
right  hand,  feeling  all  the  while  as  though  choking  fingers 
grasped  her  throat. 

She  scarcely  heard  Mrs.  Read's  comments  on  the 
"Hammerstein  Mystery."  She  was  half-dazed  by  the 
shock  of  realizing  how  strong  circumstantial  evidence 
would  be  against  her.  Reading  that  account,  people 
would  actually  believe  that  she,  Dorothy,  had  murdered 
her  sister  for  the  sake  of  her  aunt's  fortune!  And  the 
cruellest  irony  lay  in  the  fact  that  it  was  her  own  plot 
which  lent  plausibility  to  the  monstrous  theory.  It  would 
seem  to  outsiders  quite  possible  for  a  penniless  girl  to 
murder  an  heiress  in  order  to  inherit  her  money,  whereas 
in  her  own  person  as  Dorothy,  to  whom  Mrs.  Julius 
Knight's  fortune  had  been  left,  she  would  have  no  such 
incentive  to  crime. 

"I'm  sure  I  hope  they'll  catch  those  dreadful  women." 

It  was  Rosa  who  said  this — Rosa,  who  would  not  have 
hurt  a  fly. 


Dorothy's  Confession.  279 

"Hanging's  too  good  for  people  like  that,"  she  asserted. 

"Fancy  killing  your  own  sister — and  just  for  money !" 

"But  they're  not  sure  of  it,  yet." 

"They  will  be  when  they  dig  her  up,  and  find  the  poi- 
son. They  do  find  poisons  in  dead  bodies,  you  know, 
mamma.  You  remember  the  Wickworth  case?  I  sup- 
pose they  won't  hang  the  women  even  if  they  catch  them, 
will  they  ?  They  never  do  hang  women  now.  I  couldn't 
commit  a  murder.  One  would  feel  so  dreadful  in  the 
dark.    But  think  of  those  horrible  women  being  at  large !" 

Aylmer  could  endure  it  no  longer. 

"Mrs.  Ransome,"  he  said,  suddenly  entering  the  draw- 
ing room,  and  standing  in  front  of  Dorothy  while  he 
spoke,  in  order  to  hide  her  face  from  the  other  occupants 
of  the  room,  "you  haven't  seen  my  study  yet.  I  know  you 
are  interested  in  etchings,  and  I  have  two  capital  artists' 
proofs  to  show  you." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  white,  grateful  face.  She 
was  glad  to  take  the  hand  he  offered  to  assist  her  to  rise, 
for  she  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  and  incapable  of 
making  any  set  conventional  speeches. 

Noting  this,  he  talked  on,  scarcely  conscious  of  what 
he  said,  about  etchings  and  engravings  and  various  art 
processes,  until  they  had  left  the  drawing  room,  and  cross- 
ing the  hall,  had  entered  his  own  particular  sanctum,  a 
tiny  study,  papered  in  red  and  paneled  with  oak,  the  walls 
hung  with  etchings,  and  the  furniture  consisting  of  two 
armchairs,  one  on  each  side  of  the  fireplace,  a  writing  desk 
and  seat,  a  bookcase,  a  newspaper  rack,  a  waste-paper 
basket,  and  many  brackets  for  pipes. 

Carefully  shutting  the  door,  he  led  Dorothy  to  one  of 
the  armchairs  by  the  fire.  But  she  was  far  too  much  ex- 
cited to  sit  down. 

"Did  you  hear  what  they  read  and  what  they  said  about 


280  Dorothy's  Confession. 

it?"  she  asked  in  an  excited  whisper.  "I  never  thought 
it  would  sound  like  that." 

"I  heard  every  word.     But  I  knew  it  all  before." 

"You  knew  it !  And  yet  you  took  me  in  ?  Was  it  out 
of  pity  ?    Or  do  you  take  a  morbid  interest  in  monsters  ?" 

He  could  see  that  she  was  strung  up  to  the  highest 
pitch  of  excitement  and  so  would  not  resent  her  bitter 
words,  which  seemed  burnt  out  of  her  in  a  fire  of  feeling. 

"I  have  told  you  my  reasons,"  he  said  gently.  "I  should 
only  weary  you  by  repeating  them." 

"You  have  told  me  that  you — you  love  me,"  she  said  in 
the  same  nervous,  intense  whisper.  "But  you  have  no 
idea  of  the  real  facts  of  the  case.  You  called  me  Mrs. 
Sergius  Trevelyan.  Darcy  Derrick  and  Sergius  Trevel- 
yan  are  one  and  the  same  person.  He  went  through  an 
illegal  form  of  marriage  with  the  one  sister,  deceiving  and 
deserting  her,  and  he  was  afterward  legally  married  to  the 
other.     So  that  you  see  he  spoiled  the  lives  of  both." 

Aylmer  drew  a  quick  breath.  This,  indeed,  he  had  not 
known.  But  his  passionate  sympathy  and  love  for  Doro- 
thy enabled  him  to  see  into  her  mind.  He  understood 
that  embittered  as  she  was  by  the  trials  of  fortune,  she 
could  not  yet  wholly  trust  and  believe  him.  She  was  tell- 
ing herself  that  this  man  who  gave  shelter  to  a  suspected 
murderess  would  presently  expect  his  pay  in  freedom  to 
make  love  to  her.  The  suspicion,  he  knew,  was  worthy 
neither  of  her  nor  of  him,  but  it  seemed  to  him,  under 
the  circumstances  of  the  case,  at  least  justifiable. 

"I  knew  that  you  were  married,"  he  said,  after  a  slight 
pause.  "I  told  you  so.  And  I  wish  with  all  my  heart 
that  you  were  married  happily." 

She  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  She  did  not  quite  be- 
lieve his  statement,  and  he  himself  knew  that  it  was  not 
wholly  true.    He  would  have  wished  it  to  be  so,  but  he 


Dorothy's  Confession.  281 

was  eight-and-twenty,  and  human,  and  even  honor  and 
chivalry  cannot  wholly  subdue  the  feelings  of  a  man. 
.    "I  don't  want  to  force  your  confidence,"  he  said,  "but 
this  man  Derrick  or  Trevelyan  must  be  quite  an  excep- 
tionally bad  lot." 

"He  is  wholly  and  altogether  vile.  It  makes  me  sick 
to  think  of  him!"  she  returned  with  passionate  energy, 
and  then,  suddenly  sinking  down  in  one  of  the  armchairs 
by  the  fire,  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  and  began 
to  weep. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  she  sobbed.  "I  know  a  man  hates  to 
see  anybody  cry.  But  I  feel  broken.  Please  don't  take 
any  notice  of  me." 

"Cry,  if  it  does  you  good,"  he  said  gently,  and,  seating 
himself  at  his  desk  with  his  back  to  her,  he  pretended  to 
be  absorbed  in  adding  together  imaginary  rows  of  figures, 
which  he  scrawled  upon  his  blotting  book. 

Gradually  her  quick  sobbing  ceased.  She  dried  her  eyes 
and  sat  some  moments  staring  into  the  fire,  lost  in  thought. 
At  last,  looking  up  suddenly,  she  addressed  Aylmer  in 
sweet,  appealing  tones. 

"Mr.  Read,"  she  said,  "you  must  think  me  terribly  un- 
grateful, but  I  suppose  I  have  had  too  much  to  bear  lately, 
and  it  has  soured  me.  Will  you  come  over  here  by  the 
fire  and  talk  to  me?  There  is  something  I  want  to  tell 
you." 

He  came  at  once,  but  found  it  very  difficult  to  sit  oppo- 
site her  and  look  at  her  in  a  brotherly  and  impassioned 
way  now  when  her  lashes  were  wet  with  tears  and  her 
mouth  still  quivered  with  weeping.  Grief,  while  it  marred 
her  beauty,  lent  to  her  appearance  an  appealing  helpless- 
ness which  went  straight  to  Aylmer's  heart.  But  he 
schooled  himself  to  ask  in  level  tones  what  she  had  to 
tell  him. 

"It  is  very  generous  of  you  to  ask  me  no  questions 


282  Dorothy's  Confession. 

about  my  sister's  death,"  she  said,  "and  it  is  more  than 
generous  of  you  to  believe  all  I  say.  What  I  want  to  tell 
you  is  that  I  was  not  in  the  house  at  the  time ;  only  she 
and  Cresswell  were  there,  and  my  sister  was  quite  alone 
when  she  died.  Cresswell  thought  she  heard  her  cry  out, 
and  going  in  she  found  my  poor  darling  on  the  floor  dead. 
She  had  cut  her  head  in  falling,  making  a  terrible  wound 
from  which  the  blood  was  flowing.  She  had  known  she 
could  not  live  long,  and  only  that  afternoon  had  talked 
to  me  so  sweetly  and  so  pathetically,  begging  me  to  for- 
give her  for  having  deceived  me  about  the  laudanum." 

"About  the  laudanum?" 

"Yes.  She  had  suffered  terribly  from  neuralgia,  and 
had  got  into  the  way  of  taking  it  when  I  was  out  to  induce 
sleep.  That  is  why  she  quarreled  with  Dr.  Morgan,  who 
had  attended  her  all  the  time,  and  we  had  to  get  another 
doctor." 

"But  that  report  says  you  bought  the  laudanum." 

"Yes.     It  was  a  mistake." 

She  paused.  Should  she  reveal  her  identity  to  him,  she 
wondered  ? 

"That  mistake  is  very  important,"  he  said. 

"I  was  in  a  house  five  minutes'  walk  away,"  Dorothy 
went  on,  "but  I  heard  my  sister's  death-cry  in  my  heart, 
and  I  rushed  out.  As  soon  as  I  reached  the  street  I  ran 
against  that  man  Sergius  Trevelyan,  and  he  followed  me 
as  I  fled  to  the  house.  I  feel  convinced,  from  footmarks 
we  found  in  the  garden  mould  close  about  the  window, 
that  he  had  peered  into  the  house,  and  that  the  shock 
of  seeing  him  killed  my  sister.  And  all  the  time  that 
she  lay  dead  the  lawyer's  letter,  which  was  the  first  inti- 
mation we  had  about  my  Aunt  Dorothea's  fortune,  was 
left  unopened  upon  the  table  in  the  dining-room.  I  was 
half  mad  with  grief,  and  I  knew  nothing  about  it  until 


Dorothy's  Confession.  283 

the  following  day,  when  Creswell  brought  it  to  me,  and 
I  opened  it  in  her  presence." 

Aylmer  sprang  from  his  seat. 

"But  then  Cress  well  has  only  to  appear  and  give  evi- 
dence and  your  name  is  cleared,"  he  cried.  "She  must 
return  to  town  at  once " 

"She  must  stay  where  she  is!  Unless  I  saw  her  and 
could  instruct  her  just  what  to  say  she  would  betray  me." 

"Betray  you?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  Mr.  Read,  you  must  trust  me  not  at  all  or 
all  in  all.  I  have  told  you  the  truth  about  my  sister's 
death,  and  if  you  will  help  me  to  hide  and  later  on  to 
get  away  quietly  from  England  I  shall  be  very  deeply 
grateful.  But  if  you  try  to  persuade  me  to  face  a  trial, 
even  though  I  know  quite  well  I  should  be  at  once  proved 
innocent  of  this  hideous  charge,  you  will  drive  me  from 
your  house  and  from  the  only  friend  I  have  who  is  willing 
and  able  to  help  me.  And  rather  than  be  dragged  into 
court  I  would  kill  myself!" 

The  white,  set  look  of  horror  he  had  seen  in  her  face 
before  shadowed  it  again  now.  Aylmer  saw  it  was  vain 
to  argue  with  her;  and  although  her  conduct  in  evading 
an  inquiry  which  could  only  tend  to  prove  her  innocent 
appeared  to  him  almost  criminally  foolish,  he  understood 
that  it  would  be  equally  futile  to  reason  with  or  to  ques- 
tion her  in  her  present  mood. 

In  order  to  turn  her  thoughts  in  gentler  channels,  he 
rose,  and  unlocking  his  desk,  drew  out  a  parcel  of  photo- 
graphs. 

"I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  you,"  he  said.  "The 
confession  of  a  mean  and  paltry  action.  When  you  and 
I  were  fellow  students  for  that  brief  space  of  time  at  the 
British  Museum  you  once  dropped  in  the  galleries  a  .por- 
trait of  yourself,  which  I  picked  up  and  detained  long 
enough  to  note  the  name  of  the  photographer.    I  wrote 


284  Dorothy's  Confession. 

at  once  to  this  man  for  a  copy,  and  in  his  answer  he  told 
me  that  you  had  been  married  in  his  town  and  the  name 
of  your  husband." 

"Ah!" 

"He  had  other  pictures  of  you,  he  said,  and  I  wrote  for 
one  of  each  kind  taken.  Here  they  are,  as  you  see,  but 
they  are  one  and  all  extremely  bad." 

Dorothy  caught  at  the  pictures  with  a  little  exclamation, 
half  joy  and  half  pain.  Tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks  as 
she  gazed  at  them  eagerly. 

"Some  of  them  I  have  not  seen  before,"  she  murmured. 
"They  are  so  like." 

"They  are  exceedingly  unflattering." 

"They  are  much  prettier  than  I,"  she  cried,  indignantly, 
flushing  with  vexation. 

A  light  flashed  into  Aylmer's  mind. 

"I  have  found  out  something,"  he  exclaimed.  "These 
are  the  pictures  of  Phyllis  Knight,  and  you  are  not  Phyl- 
lis, but  her  sister  Dorothy." 

She  sprang  up,  facing  him,  with  the  pictures  still  in 
her  hands,  holding  them  close  against  her  heart. 

"And  if  I  am,"  she  cried  with  quick  defiance,  "what 
difference  does  it  make?" 

"Prove  that,  and  there  is  no  sense  in  these  accusations." 

"If  I  prove  it,"  she  cried,  "I  prove,  too,  that  I  am  the 
wife  of  a  creature  I  hate  and  loathe  beyond  the  power  of 
words.  While  he  thinks  me  his  victim  who  loved  him,  he 
is  merely  malignant,  but  if  once  he  suspected  that  I  am 
in  reality  the  woman  who  left  him  within  an  hour  of  the 
marriage  ceremony,  I  should  never  again  be  free  from 
his  destestable  persecution.  He  would  want  my  money 
and  he  would  want  me.  He  has  a  horrible  passion  for 
me,  the  mere  idea  of  which  sickens  and  revolts  me.  I 
cannot  trust  myself  when  he  is  near.  I  become  changed 
and  maddened.     I  hate  him  so  much  that  I  am  not  capa- 


Dorothy's  Confession.  285 

blc  of  restraining  myself.  Once  already  I  have  tried  to 
kill  him,  and  if  the  law  handed  me  over  to  him  I  should 
soon  become  in  truth  the  murderess  they  call  me.  If  he 
sees  me  he  will  recognize  me,  and  know  the  trick  that  has 
been  played  upon  him  and  claim  me  as  his  wife;  and 
rather  than  endure  that  I  would  plead  guilty,  he  tried, 
sentenced,  and  hanged — for  the  murder  of  myself!" 

She  was  on  fire  with  excitement  again,  and  before  he 
left  the  house  for  his  night  work  at  the  office  she  had 
bound  him  solemnly  to  secrecy  on  the  subject  of  her 
identity,  after  which  the  reaction  came,  and  she  took  leave 
of  him  with  what  looked  like  cold  civility. 

But  before  she  went  so  sleep  Dorothy,  blushing  in  the 
darkness,  kissed  her  wedding-ring,  and  slept  with  her  left 
hand  pillowed  under  her  cheek.  In  this  troubled  time  the 
touch  of  the  ring  was  as  that  of  a  friend  and  soothed  her 
to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE    EXHUMATION. 

Dorothy  awoke  next  morning  to  an  unwonted  sense  of 
restfulness  and  well-being. 

True,  the  morning  was  cold  and  a  chilly  mist  hung 
about  the  air;  true,  she  was  in  this  house  under  an  as- 
sumed name,  a  suspected  murderess  escaping  from  the 
arm  of  the  law;  and  yet  she  could  not  feel  so  miserable 
as  she  had  done  on  the  previous  morning  when,  all  un- 
aware of  the  hideous  charge  against  her,  she  had  risen 
from  her  bed  in  the  gardener's  cottage  at  Ham,  oppressed 
with  a  sense  of  her  terrible  loss,  and  with  no  hope  for  the 
future  but  such  as  lay  in  the  prospect  of  a  long  journey 
to  a  strange  country. 

Lying  now  with  half-closed  eyes,  she  took  herself  to 
task  over  this  sudden  lightening  of  her  spirits  under  cir- 
cumstances of  deeper  gloom  than  any  she  had  yet  known, 
and  the  answer  to  her  inward  questionings  came  with  a 
warm  flush  which  crept  over  her  cheeks  and  throat. 
Through  all  her  trials,  troubles  and  mistakes,  fate  had  at 
last  led  her  safely  to  the  care  of  a  man  who  loved  her 
better  than  all  the  world,  the  only  one  toward  whom  her 
heart  had  ever  yet  gone  out  in  an  instinctive  sympathy, 
and  this  fact  was  undoubtedly  the  cause  of  her  happier 
frame  of  mind. 

There  was  more  than  sympathy  in  her  thoughts  of 
Aylmer  at  this  moment.  Circumstances  had  greatly  fa- 
vored his  wooing,  in  that  he  had  been  enabled  to  appear 
again  in  Dorothy's  life  at  a  critical  moment,  and  under 


The  Exhumation.  287 

most  chivalrous  and  love-compelling  guise.  He  came  as 
her  true  knight,  her  champion,  believing  in  her  innocence 
against  any  evidence,  and  prepared  to  stake  his  honor  in 
her  cause.  Fortunately  for  him  it  was  a  part  for  which 
his  nature  suited  him,  and  which  he  could,  therefore,  as- 
sume without  bravado  or  self-consciousness ;  fortunately, 
also,  he  belonged  to  the  physical  type  which  was  most 
congenial  to  the  lady  of  his  heart.  The  big  and  massive, 
the  masterful  yet  gentle  in  man  had  always  appealed  to 
Dorothy's  taste;  hence  probably  arose  her  imperviousness 
to  Darcy  Derrick's  effeminate  beauty,  and  languishing  se- 
ductiveness. She  liked  above  all  things  a  manly  man,  and 
would  have  preferred  even  a  brute  to  a  milk-sop.  Her 
acquaintance  with  men  was  exceedingly  limited.  During 
those  four  years  of  hand-to-mouth  struggle  for  life  which 
had  elapsed  since  her  father's  death,  her  intercourse  with 
the  opposite  sex  had  consisted  solely  of  business  inter- 
views in  offices,  during  the  course  of  which  she  had  early 
discovered  that  her  personal  comeliness  was  a  thing  to  be 
regretted,  in  that  it  sometimes  induced  her  employers  to 
offer  undesirable  and  swiftly  resented  attentions,  while  it 
never  for  a  moment  led  them  to  drive  less  hard  bargains 
for  her  artistic  work. 

This  discovery  it  was  that,  coming  as  a  shock  to  a  sen- 
sitive and  refined  girl,  full  of  the  illusions  of  youth,  had 
imparted  to  her  manners  that  veneer  of  coldness  and  pride 
which  had  sufficed  to  keep  the  art  students  in  awe  of 
her,  and  which  by  its  unaccustomed  piquancy  had  at- 
tracted the  jaded  senses  of  Darcy  Derrick.  But  the  natu- 
ral Dorothy  was  neither  cold  nor  unimpressionable;  she 
was,  on  the  contrary,  the  most  womanly  creature  imagina- 
ble, to  whom  loving  with  whole-souled  strength  and  ten- 
derness was  an  absolute  necessity.  The  loss  of  her  sister, 
who  had  demanded  from  her  a  mother's  care  and  devo- 
tion, seemed  to  have  left  her  life  empty  and  blank.    The 


288  The  Exhumation. 

horror  with  which  Darcy's  treachery  and  callous  cruelty 
had  filled  her  for  a  time  caused  her  to  regard  all  men 
with  aversion,  but  now  her  revulsion  of  feelings  in  Ayl- 
mer's  favor  led  her  to  the  opposite  extreme,  and  inclined 
her  to  idealize  him  into  a  figure  of  superhuman  excellence. 

Happily,  Aylmer  Read,  in  the  simple  directness  of  his 
character  and  his  capability  of  selfless  devotion,  was 
molded  on  sufficiently  romantic  and  heroic  lines,  as 
knights  of  the  nineteenth  century  go;  between  the  ideal 
Aylmer  and  the  real  Aylmer  there  was  no  appreciable 
drop,  and  the  latter  was  perhaps  even  the  more  loveable 
of  the  two.  Toward  him  Dorothy's  waking  thoughts  went 
out  in  a  rush  of  passionate  gratitude  which  she  had  been 
too  much  excited  to  be  conscious  of  on  the  preceding 
evening. 

"He  must  have  thought  me  horribly  hard  and  cold  and 
suspicious  last  night,"  she  told  herself.  "I  need  not  be 
all  those  things  with  him,  I  know.  I  hope  he  will  not 
love  me  less  because  of  my  coldness.  Of  course,  I  ought 
to  hope  he  will  leave  off  loving  me  altogether,  as  the  law 
would  pretend  I  belong  to  that  horrible  man  just  because 
I  was  trapped  into  entering  a  church  and  making  a  prom- 
ise to  him  there  under  false  pretenses.  But  I  can't  hope 
that  Aylmer  will  leave  off  loving  me  just  yet.  I  am  so 
badly  in  need  of  love  and  of  belief  in  men.  My  heart  is 
aching  and  sore,  and  I  feel  after  all  these  years  of  work 
and  worry  and  this  last  terrible  grief,  that  I  want  rest  and 
comfort  and — even  a  little  spoiling  with  too  much  kind- 
ness. It  won't  matter  in  the  end.  I  shall  go  away  to 
America  in  a  few  days  and  try  to  find  my  brother,  who 
won't  want  me,  and  try  to  make  the  rest  of  poor  old 
Cresswell's  life  happy.  At  least,  I  shall  be  safe  from 
the  horror  of  that  man  Derrick's  persecution.  And  before 
I  go  I  shall  say  good-by  to  my  kind,  dear  friend,  my  only 
friend,  Mr.  Read,  and  he  will  go  back  to  his  dreams  of 


The  Exhumation.  289 

me,  and  perhaps  in  time  marry  his  pretty  cousin  and  be 
very  happy.  That  is  what  I  have  always  heard  men  do. 
And  I  shall  live  abroad,  a  widow  without  ever  having  had 
a  husband,  and  shall  always  wear  the  wedding-ring  he 
put  upon  my  finger." 

From  her  window,  which  overlooked  the  garden  at  the 
back,  came  a  sound  of  singing  in  a  clear,  high,  bird-like 
voice,  as  joyous  as  a  skylark's.  Dorothy  got  up  and,  peep- 
ing from  behind  her  blind,  beheld  Rosa  in  a  coarse  apron 
over  a  tucked-up  black  serge  gown,  engaged  in  digging 
the  bare  flower-beds  with  a  large  spade.  She  was  rosy 
with  her  exertions  and  looked  the  picture  of  health  and 
prettiness  as  she  caroled  forth  blithely  the  somewhat  in- 
appropriate words: 

Oh  hear  us  when  we  cry  to  Thee 
For  those  in  peril  on  the  sea ! 

Dorothy  learned  later  that  Rosa  spent  her  life  singing 
hymns,  her  preference  being  given  to  those  of  a  mourn- 
ful nature.  Knowing  but  little  of  music,  and  being  as- 
siduous in  church  attendance,  attracted  thereto  a  good 
deal  by  the  personal  attractions  of  the  curate,  she  in- 
stinctively broke  into  the  tunes  and  words  with  which 
constant  repetition  had  made  her  familiar,  cheerily  mak- 
ing the  beds  while  chirping: 

As  the  tree  falls  so  shall  it  lie, 
As  a  man  lives  so  shall  he  die ! 

and  working  her  sewing  machine  to  the  dirge-like  refrain 
of  the  "Pilgrims  of  the  Night." 

It  was  as  yet  only  half-past  six  o'clock,  but  Rosa's  en- 
ergy was  insatiable.  At  eight  o'clock  breakfast  she  was 
as  bright  and  fresh  to  look  at  as  a  newly-awakened  baby. 


290  The  Exhumation. 

"Where  would  you  like  to  go  to-day,  Mrs.  Ransome?" 
she  inquired.  "The  Zoo,  the  wax-works,  and  Hampstead 
Heath  are  all  pretty  near.  Or  do  you  want  to  go  right 
down  into  town  ?" 

"I  hope  you  won't  be  disappointed,  but  I  should  most 
of  all  like  to  stay  quite  quietly  in  the  house  and  garden. 
You  know  I  have  been  very  ill  and  also  much  worried 
lately,  and  I  feel  that  all  I  want  in  the  world  is  perfect 
rest  and  quiet  for  the  few  days  I  shall  be  here." 

"Ah,  but  Aylmer  won't  let  you  go  in  a  few  days,"  ob- 
served Miss  Read,  archly. 

"Mr.  Read  knows  I  cannot  stay  in  London  long,"  Doro- 
thy returned,  assuming  her  coldest  manner,  but  painfully 
conscious  that  she  was  blushing  hotly. 

"Now,  you  are  not  going  to  be  nasty  and  disagreeable," 
cried  Rosa,  in  dismay,  dropping  the  knife  and  fork  with 
which  she  was  hungrily  demolishing  eggs  and  bacon. 
"Of  course,  mamma  and  I  couldn't  help  noticing  last 
night  how  Aylmer  couldn't  take  his  eyes  off  you  at  din- 
ner, and  how  he  afterward  made  himself  late  for  his  office 
work  by  shutting  himself  into  his  study  talking  to  you. 
You  needn't  think  I  shall  be  jealous  or  anything  like  that. 
Aylmer  and  I  are  just  like  brother  and  sister.  Of  course, 
I  don't  say  but  what  mamma  will  be  a  little  bit  disap- 
pointed at  first.  But  that  will  soon  wear  off;  and  it's  all 
her  own  fault,  for  what  did  I  say  to  her  from  the  first? 
Men  never  fall  in  love  with  the  pretty  girls  who  are  just 
under  their  noses — they  always  think  in  such  cases  that 
what  they  get  abroad  with  a  lot  of  trouble  must  be  better 
than  what  might  be  had  for  the  asking  at  home.  Not 
that,"  she  added,  quickly  correcting  herself,  and  tossing 
her  pretty  head,  "not  that  Aylmer  could  have  had  me  for 
the  asking !  He's  not  my  style  and  I'm  not  his,  and  that's 
the  truth.  I  like  a  man  with  a  lot  of  fun  about  him  and 
a  dark  mustache.    Of  course,  Aylmer  is   wonderfully 


The  Exhumation.  291 

clever,  and  has  got  on  splendidly  at  his  profession;  but 
his  fun,  when  he's  inclined  to  be  lively,  is  all  quiet  and 
satirical,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Now,  I  like  laughter, 
and  I  don't  so  much  care  what  one  is  laughing  at.  But 
you  and  Aylmer  ought  to  suit  each  other  splendidly." 

"I  am  sorry  to  upset  your  benevolent  matrimonial  plans 
for  me,  Miss  Read " 

"Now  you  are  talking  sarcastically,  just  like  Aylmer. 
And  I  do  hate  calling  each  other  Miss  Read  and  Mrs. 
Ransome.     Do  you  object  to  Christian  names?" 

"I  would  very  much  rather  you  called  me  by  my  real 
name,"  Dorothy  answered  energetically.  "My  name  is 
Dorothy,  and  please  call  me  that,  and  never  Mrs.  Ran- 
some. But  I  was  not  speaking  sarcastically.  I  am  sure 
you  mean  all  you  say  very  kindly,  but  I  have  not  the 
slightest  intention  of  ever  marrying  again. 

"Perhaps  you  think  it  wicked?"  suggested  Rosa,  look- 
ing at  her  doubtfully.  "Mamma  does,  I  know,  but  then 
nobody  is  very  likely  to  ask  her.  It  does  seem  hard  on  us 
girls  who  have  never  had  one  husband  to  find  other 
women  running  through  two  or  three.  But  people  say 
everybody  always  like  widows,  because  they  tell  risky  sto- 
ries and  know  how  to  manage  men." 

"Well,  I  never  tell  what  you  call  'risky'  stories.  In 
fact,  I  hardly  know  what  you  mean  by  the  expression. 
And  I  haven't  the  least  idea  how  to  manage  a  man;  so 
that  people  wouldn't  like  me." 

"You  are  so  much  prettier  when  you  laugh  like  that, 
Dolly,  dear!"  Rosa  cried  enthusiastically.  "If  I  had 
teeth  like  yours  I  should  be  on  the  grin  all  day.  You 
usually  look  most  awfully  sad,  and  it  doesn't  suit  you  a 
bit.  When  you  brighten  up  two  jolly  little  dimples  come 
out  one  on  each  side  of  your  mouth  and  you  look  about 
eighteen." 

Dorothy  was  inclined   to   reproach  herself  when   she 


292  The  Exhumation. 

burst  out  laughing  over  Rosa's  irresponsible  sallies.  The 
girl's  unrefined  naturalness,  her  naive  vanity  and  openly 
expressed  desire  to  get  married,  came  as  an  amusing  relief 
to  Dorothy  after  a  long  period  of  over-strain  on  the  emo- 
tions and  the  brain.  She  felt  as  if  she  could  sit  still  all 
day  and  laugh  at  Rosa's  nonsense,  and  Rosa,  on  her  part, 
was  charmed  with  so  sympathetic  a  listener. 

"I  don't  wonder  you're  in  love  with  Dorothy,"  she  said 
heartily  to  Aylmer,  meeting  him  in  the  garden  a  little  be- 
fore lunch  time. 

"In  love  with  Dorothy!"  he  repeated  in  amazement. 
"What  in  the  world  are  you  talking  about  ?" 

"Well,  Mrs.  Ransome's  Christian  name  is  Dorothy,  and 
you're  in  love  with  her,  aren't  you?  Of  course  she  says 
she  will  never  marry  again,  and  that  she  treasures  her 
wedding-ring  more  than  anything  in  the  world,  and  will 
never  move  it  from  her  finger.  But  you  can  persuade  her 
out  of  all  that." 

"Did  she  say  that  about  her  wedding-ring?"  he  asked 
eagerly,  his  heart  taking  a  leap  of  delight.  "Tell  me  the 
exact  words,  Rosa." 

"We'd  been  pottering  about  in  the  conservatory,"  Rosa 
answered  readily,  "and  we  were  washing  our  hands  for 
lunch  a  few  minutes  ago.  I  asked  Dolly  if  she  took  her 
rings  off,  as  I  do  mine,  to  wash  her  hands,  and  she  said : 
'I  have  only  one  ring — this/  and  she  pointed  to  her  wed- 
ding-ring, 'and  as  long  as  I  live  I  will  never  take  that 
off.'  'Do  you  treasure  it  so  much?'  I  asked.  'Yes/  she 
said,  quite  solemnly,  'I  treasure  it  more  than  anything  in 
the  world.'  That  was  just  all  that  passed.  But  you 
needn't  be  disheartened.  You  haven't  an  idea  the  things 
Ive  heard  widows  say,  cracking  up  the  dear  departed  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  I  mean,  and  they've  always  been  the 
first  to  marry  again  directly  anybody  asked  them." 

"I  am  not  disheartened,"  Aylmer  said  gravely.     "I 


The  Exhumation.  293 

have  never  had  the  smallest  intention  of  asking  Mrs.  Ran- 
some  to  marry  me.  And  I  must  ask  you,  Rosa,  not  to 
discuss  such  a  possibility  with  Mrs.  Ransome.  It  is 
equally  offensive  to  me  and  to  her." 

"You're  wrong  there,"  protested  the  incorrigible  Rosa. 
"She  didn't  mind  it  a  bit." 

Immediately  after  the  one  o'clock  lunch,  which  was 
strved  as  Aylmer's  breakfast,  he  left  the  house,  and  did 
not  return  until  half-past  six.  Before  departing  he  con- 
trived to  take  Dorothy  aside  into  the  dining-room  and  beg 
her  to  wait  for  his  return  in  his  study,  as  he  would  be 
certain  to  bring  her  news  of  serious  import. 

"We  must  tell  my  aunt  and  cousin  that  I  am  trustee 
for  your  property,  and  seeing  to  business  on  the  subject," 
he  suggested. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  quickly,  "otherwise  they  will 
think " 

She  checked  herself,  blushing  crimson,  and  feeling  in- 
tensely uncomfortable. 

"They  will  think  I  am  in  love  with  you,"  he  said  quietly. 
"Well,  perhaps  that  is  the  most  reasonable  inference  to 
put  upon  our  conferences — that  I  am  trying  to  wean  your 
mind  from  thoughts  of  the  late  Mr.  Philip  Ransome. 
Rosa,  having  got  that  idea  into  her  head,  is  not  likely  to 
let  it  go.    Meantime,  good-by !" 

"You  had  better  call  me  Dorothy,  as  Rosa  does,"  she 
said,  following  him  to  the  door;  "I  keep  forgetting  to 
answer  'Mrs.  Ransome.'  And  every  little  bit  of  deception 
we  can  do  without  is  a  gain ;  I  do  so  hate  it !" 

"As  you  wish,"  he  returned  in  studiously  matter-of- 
fact  tones,  and  took  his  leave. 

Each  was  acting  a  part ;  but  since  the  wedding-ring  in- 
cident had  reached  Aylmer's  ears  he  had  at  least  the  sat- 
isfaction of    knowing  that  Dorothy's    coldness  was  as- 


294  The  Exhumation. 

sumed.  Even  hopeless  love  is  better  far  than  love  unre- 
turned. 

At  half-past  six  he  drove  up  again  in  a  cab,  and  at 
once  sought  his  study,  where  Dorothy,  pale  to  the  lips, 
awaited  him  in  speechless  anxiety. 

"The  exhumation  took  place  this  morning,"  he  said.  "I 
was  present  when  the  inquest  was  opened.  The  evidence 
was  merely  formal.  The  body  was  identified  by  Darcy 
Derrick 

"As  that  of  his  wife  Dorothy  or  Dorothea." 

She  stared  at  him  with  contracted  brows  and  parted 
lips. 

"How  can  that  be?"  she  whispered.  "Surely  he  would 
know !     That  was  what  I  feared " 

"It  was  a  fortnight  after  death  and  this  man  Derrick 
had  no  suspicion.  He  had  only  to  state  identification.' 
He  scarcely  glanced  at  the  body,  so  they  told  me,  but 
almost  immediately  afterward  he  broke  into  a  cry  about 
his  darling  wife  and  fainted." 

"Fainted!"    Dorothy  repeated  with  ineffable  scorn. 

"Dead  off.  I  saw  the  fellow  afterward  and  recognized 
him  as  the  one  I  had  seen  hanging  about  Lockhart  Cot- 
tages on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  when  I  found  you." 

"You  went  to  Lockhart  Cottages?" 

"Naturally.  I  wanted  to  see  where  you  had  lived  and 
worked  and  suffered.  And  I  wanted  to  warn  you  if  I 
had  a  chance." 

"I  shall  never  be  able  to  thank  you.  Go  on  telling  me 
about  to-day." 

"Dr.  Wentworth  deposed  to  being  called  in  bv  Cress- 
well,  who  appeared  half  crazy  with  grief,  and  to  finding 
your  sister  on  a  sofa  in  the  dining-room.  He  asked  about 
the  wound  in  her  head  and  was  told  that  she  had  injured 
herself  as  she  fell.  He  had  twice  attended  her  as  Miss 
Knight,  but  was  afterward  informed  that  her  name  was 


The  Exhumation.  295 

the  Hon.  Mrs.  Darcy  Derrick.  From  what  he  saw 
and  knew  concerning  the  state  of  his  patient's  health  he 
had  no  hesitation  in  certifying  heart  disease  as  the  cause 
of  death.  He  had  never  prescribed  laudanum  for  her. 
Until  the  night  of  her  death  he  had  not  been  to  her  house, 
nor  had  he  until  then  ever  seen  her  sister,  who  appeared, 
he  said,  so  prostrated  with  grief  that  he  feared  for  her 
reason  and  was  compelled  to  immediately  prescribe  for 
her.  The  rest  of  the  evidence  as  to  burial,  exhumation, 
and  so  on,  was  almost  wholly  formal,  and  the  inquest  has 
now  been  adjourned  for  a  week,  in  order  that  the  doctors 
and  analysts  may  make  their  examination.  Until  they  are 
completed  you  can  do  nothing  but  wait." 

"I  will  obey  you  in  everything,"  she  said  gently. 

"In  everything  but  what  I  most  strongly  advise,"  he 
said.     "To  face  a  trial." 

"Do  you  really  wish  me  to  do  that?" 

Her  eyes  met  his  earnestly,  appealingly. 

Aylmer's  thoughts  flew  to  that  sinister  face,  deadly  pale 
against  vivid  scarlet  lips,  the  face  of  the  man  who  was 
waiting  to  claim  her  as  his  wife. 

"God  help  me!"  he  murmured  under  his  breath,  turn- 
ing sharply  away.     "I  cannot  advise  you  any  more !" 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  USES  OE  ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick  had  taken  a  furnished  flat  for 
the  season. 

It  was  not  a  fashionable  flat,  or  an  expensive  flat,  or 
an  abode  that  in  any  way  realized  that  luxury-loving 
young  gentleman's  ideals  of  the  beautiful  and  appropriate. 
But  misfortunes  had  gathered  closely  over  Darcy 's  shape- 
ly head  since  the  time  when  he  had  with  difficulty  scram- 
bled out  of  a  Cornish  ditch  on  his  honeymoon  journey  in 
the  preceding  autumn. 

That  his  sickly  elder  brother,  Baron  Derick,  should 
have  taken  to  himself  a  wife  in  the  person  of  a  tall,  hand- 
some and  healthy  Irish  girl,  just  about  the  time  when 
Darcy's  bride  was  assisting  his  ignominious  flight  down 
a  railway  embankment,  was  an  unpleasant  possibility 
which  had  never  once  occurred  to  Mr.  Derrick,  and  that 
young  Lady  Derrick  would  shortly  present  him  with  a 
niece  or  nephew  was  another  cruel  and  unlooked-for  blow 
on  the  part  of  Fate. 

"It's  bound  to  be  a  boy,"  murmured  Darcy  to  himself, 
rolling  his  fine,  blue  eyes  pathetically  upward  to  the  ceil- 
ing as  he  lay  in  bed  in  his  new  quarters  on  the  day  fol- 
lowing the  exhumation  and  opening  of  the  coroner's  in- 
quest. 

"It's  part  of  my  usual  cursed  luck  that  it  should  be  a 
boy." 

He  was,  at  the  moment,  quite  without  money  and  was 
living  upon  debts,  expectations  and  Jews.     The  first  were 


The  Uses  of  Advertisement.  297 

large,  for  he  had  ventured  and  lost  his  remaining  few 
hundreds  at  Monte  Carlo  before  Christmas,  and  had  ex- 
hausted his  mother's  resources.  But  the  hope  of  obtain- 
ing possession  of  Mrs,  Julius  Knight's  fortune  supplied 
the  second  and  satisfied  the  third. 

Private  detective  work  was  employment  dear  to  Darcy's 
soul,  and  for  which  his  plausibility,  his  sympathetic  man- 
ners and  his  swift  cunning  peculiarly  well  adapted  him. 
He  had  learned  a  great  deal  more  than  the  police  dreamed 
of  in  his  peregrinations  in  the  neighborhood  of  Lockhart 
Cottages,  and  in  order  to  facilitate  these  researches  he  had 
taken  this  furnished  flat  not  far  from  the  Addison  Road 
railway  station. 

Yesterday's  proceedings  had  affected  his  delicate,  sensi- 
tive organization  painfully.  The  mere  notion  of  having 
the  ugly  secrets  of  the  tomb  dragged  to  the  light  of  day, 
and  of  being  forced  to  identify  the  changed  and  distorted 
horror  thus  exposed  as  the  woman  he  had  loved  and  de- 
sired for  her  beauty,  filled  him  with  strong  repulsion  and 
shuddering  sickness.  From  the  coroner's  court  he  had 
fled  to  the  West  End  and  had  endeavored,  in  such  de- 
lights as  a  dainty  and  expensive  dinner  at  a  fashionable 
restaurant,  a  visit  to  a  music  hall,  and  later  to  a  dancing- 
room,  to  drown  the  memory  of  his  afternoon's  experi- 
ences. At  ten  o'clock  this  morning  his  head  ached  vio- 
lently and  he  felt  extremely  cross  and  thirsty;  but  it 
soothed  him  to  read,  in  the  two  Sunday  papers  he  had 
sent  for,  sympathetic  references  to  the  "bereaved  husband 
of  the  deceased  Mrs.  Derrick,"  who,  "overcome  by  his 
emotion"  had  fainted  after  giving  evidence  of  identifica- 
tion on  the  previous  day. 

Darcy  loved  to  be  referred  to  in  the  newspapers,  to 
which  he  assiduously  sent  paragraphs  concerning  his 
doings  at  all  times,  when  he  was  not  hiding  from  his  cred- 
itors.    He  possessed  an  immense  scrap-book,  with  a  pad- 


298  The  Uses  of  Advertisement. 

lock,  the  key  of  which  was  never  allowed  to  go  out  of  his 
possession,  in  which  he  had  carefully  pasted  all  printed 
references  to  himself,  either  as  the  "Hon.  Darcy  Derrick," 
under  which  name  he  had  published  several  tiny  volumes 
of  erotic  verse,  characterized  in  one  specially  slashing  no- 
tice as  being  "nastier  than  Swinburne  and  sillier  than  the 
poet  Bunn ;"  or  as  "Sergius  Trevelyan,"  actor  in  the  Eng- 
lish provinces  and  the  United  States,  the  critics  of  which 
latter  place  declared  him  to  be  "the  most  weak-backed, 
inarticulate,  expressionless  and  wooden  apology  for  an 
alleged  actor  among  all  the  incompetent  dudes  of  good 
family  annually  foisted  upon  us  by  the  played-out  old 
country  over  the  water;"  or  as  "Mr.  Darcy,"  theatrical 
manager  and  author  of  what  newspaper  men  concurred 
in  pronouncing  "one  of  the  feeblest  and  worst  plays  pro- 
duced upon  the  English  stage  during  the  present  century." 

Far  from  being  saddened  or  discouraged  by  these  un- 
flattering references  to  his  artistic  capabilities,  Darcy 
spent  many  hours  of  his  leisure  in  reading  them  and  gloat- 
ing over  the  censure  so  lavishly  meted  out  to  him. 

"Only  the  French  understand  art,  and  only  the  Irish 
possess  humor,"  he  would  say  with  a  pitying  smile.  "And 
only  a  genius  belonging  to  both  nations,  with  an  infusion 
of  the  Italian  thrown  in,  can  understand  me!" 

Now  that  his  name  and  station  as  the  Hon.  Darcy, 
brother  to  Lord  Derrick,  were  made  public,  he  looked  for- 
ward to  becoming  speedily  the  hero  of  the  hour  by  reason 
of  his  connection  with  the  "Hammersmith  Mystery."  It 
was  probable  that  he  would  be  interviewed,  and  that 
wood-cuts  libelling  his  features  would  appear  in  the  even- 
ing papers. 

"I  must  get  taken  again,"  he  murmured  to  himself  as 
he  stretched  his  arms  out  of  bed  and  helped  himself  to  a 
tumbler  of  soda  from  the  siphon  by  his  side.  "None  of 
my  photographs  really  do  me  justice.    Women  and  girls 


The  Uses  of  Advertisement.  299 

who  read  about  my  grief  and  my  devotion  to  my  darling 
wife  will  sympathize  with  me  much  more  heartily  when 
they  see  what  I  am  like.  Of  course,  the  reproductions  in 
the  evening  papers  are  cruelly  unlike.  But  with  my  fea- 
tures they  can't  go  very  far  wrong?" 

He  lay  back  on  his  pillows,  closing  his  eyes  as  he 
thought  about  his  prospects.  He  had  a  trump  card  up 
his  sleeve  for  the  adjourned  inquest,  and  in  a  week's  time 
he  meant  to  play  it  for  all  it  was  worth. 

"I  can  quite  understand  Phyllis'  determination  to  pos- 
sess herself,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  of  her  aunt's  fortune," 
he  told  himself.  "No  doubt  she  still  hangs  on  to  the 
vain  hope  that  the  money  will  be  an  inducement.  If 
women  only  knew  the  exact  moment  when  we  grow  tired 
of  them,  and  had  the  sense  to  leave  us  then,  we  should 
never  learn  to  hate  them.  In  all  my  life  no  woman  ever 
bored  me  more  hopelessly  than  Phyllis,  and  she  never  had 
the  brains  to  see  it.  When  she  learned  how  passionately 
I  loved  her  sister,  how  she  must  have  hated  her!  It's 
extremely  probable  that  she  killed  her  out  of  crazy  jeal- 
ousy and  her  infatuation  for  me.  My  beautiful,  proud, 
fierce  Dorothy,  the  only  woman  in  the  world  for  me,  sac- 
rificed to  Phyllis'  insane  passion!" 

At  the  thought  of  the  possible  bliss  with  Dorothy  now 
forever  lost  to  him,  the  ready  tears  welled  to  Darcy's 
eyes  again,  and  he  rang  his  bell  for  his  man,  that  the 
latter  might  add  some  brandy  to  the  soda  by  way  of  as- 
suaging his  master's  grief  and  his  thirst  at  one  and  the 
same  time. 

The  servant,  a  slight,  silent  foxy-looking  man,  made 
his  appearance,  bearing  on  a  tray  a  card,  upon  which  was 
inscribed  the  name: 

"Mr.  Jack  Wyverley." 

"I  made  the  gentleman  give  his  card,  sir,"  the  servant 
explained,  "as  you  particularly  told  me  you  saw  no  one 


300  The  Uses  of  Advertisement. 

without  an  appointment.    But  he  seems  quite  set  upon 
seeing  you." 

"Show  him  in." 

Wyverley  and  Derrick  had  parted  company  at  Monte 
Carlo  in  the  preceding  autumn.  Each  had  staked  and  lost 
all  he  could  raise  on  the  gaming-tables,  but  Darcy,  by  his 
mother's  help,  contrived  to  get  back  to  England,  leaving 
his  fellow-gambler  penniless  and  lonely  at  the  scene  of  his 
losses.  This,  however,  was  not  Darcy's  fault.  Niggard- 
liness was  not  among  his  vices ;  he  loved  money  solely  for 
what  it  brought,  and  was  always  ready  to  spend  it  upon 
his  acquaintances.  Friends  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word 
he  had  none.  To  women,  old  and  young,  he  invariably 
made  love — passionately,  if  they  were  pretty ;  platonically, 
if  plain.  Men  either  envied  him  for  his  easy  love  con- 
quests, or  despised  him  heartily  and  declined  to  associate 
with  him.  But  for  the  approbation  of  his  own  sex  Darcy 
cared  little.  He  disliked  being  alone,  because  it  was  then 
impossible  to  talk  about  himself,  and  he  would  tolerate 
the  society  of  a  male  companion  in  the  absence  of  any- 
thing feminine  between  the  ages  of  five  and  forty-five; 
but,  although  his  incessant  rambling  talk  was  sometimes 
poetical  and  often  paradoxically  witty,  he  was  incapable 
of  either  feeling  or  inspiring  real  friendship  in  the  breasts 
of  his  fellow-men,  and  sooner  or  later  he  tired  of  or  quar- 
reled with  them  all. 

This  morning  he  wanted  to  pity  himself  aloud,  and  he 
wanted  somebody  to  listen.  Accordingly,  he  greeted  Jack 
Wyverley  with  something  approaching  enthusiasm.  The 
financial  crisis  through  which  the  latter  gentleman  had 
recently  passed  had  not  in  any  way  altered  Mr.  Wyver- 
ley 's  appearance.  He  was  just  the  same  short,  thick-set, 
well-groomed  and  well-dressed  old-young  man,  of  red 
face,   prominent,   bloodshot,  blue   eyes,  and   fine,  white 


The  Uses  of  Advertisement.  301 

teeth  lavishly  displayed  in  a  mocking  grin,  as  he  had  ap- 
peared for  the  last  fifteen  years. 

"Well,  Darcy,  you  ought  to  be  perfectly  happy,"  he 
began,  seating  himself  on  the  foot  of  the  bed.  "Now  that 
your  complicated  love  affairs  have  led  you  into  a  murder 
case,  you  will  be  talked  about  more  than  any  man  in  Lon- 
don for  at  least  a  week,  which  I  take  to  be  your  idea  of 
happiness." 

"Don't  chaff,  Jack.  It's  an  awful  business.  I  can't 
tell  you  what  I  have  suffered." 

"I  should  think  so!  Losing  ten  thousand  a  year  is 
enough  to  make  any  man  suffer." 

"Do  you  suppose  I  was  talking  of  the  miserable  money  ? 
I  shall  get  that  right  enough,  for  my  poor  darling  died 
intestate,  and  that  will  is  a  clear  forgery.  But  it  is  her 
loss,  Jack,  that  I  feel.     That  can  never  be  replaced!" 

"Well,  considering  that  in  your  six  months  of  married 
life  with  her  you  spent  together  exactly  one-half  hour, 
during  the  course  of  which  she  contrived  to  chuck  you 
out  of  a  train,  your  grief  really  does  you  great  credit!" 

"You  cannot  understand.  Dorothy  loved  me  intensely 
in  her  own  way.  But  her  jealousy,  when  she  was  led  to 
suppose  that  I  had  paid  attention  to  her  sister,  was  such 
that  for  the  time  she  became  a  very  fury,  and  would  will- 
ingly have  killed  either  me  or  herself." 

"From  what  I  have  heard,  she  had  some  excuse  for  her 
jealousy." 

"None  whatever.  Her  sister  was  nothing  to  me.  The 
poor,  distracted  girl  had  loved  me,  certainly;  but  it  was 
Sv.lely  on  account  of  her  likeness  to  Dorothy  that  I  ever 
took  any  notice  of  her." 

Wyverley's  grin  broadened.  He  drew  a  newspaper 
frcm  his  pocket,  and  proceeded  to  lay  it  on  the  bed  and 
smooth  its  folds  with  much  elaboration. 


302  The  Uses  of  Advertisement. 

"Have  you  seen  the  Sunday  Porcupine?"  he  asked. 

"No." 

"It  contains  a  most  interesting  account,  with  a  portrait, 
of  an  interview  with  a  little  soubrette  actress  called  Lelia 
Mongomery.  I  recognized  her  in  a  minute  as  being  the 
made-up  little  person  who  forced  her  way  past  me  up  to 
your  compartment  at  Plymouth  station  when  I  was  see- 
ing you  off  on  your  honeymoon  journey.  It's  a  most  up- 
to-date  interview,  and  will  send  up  the  circulation  of  the 
Porcupine  by  leaps  and  bounds.  The  headings  alone  are 
worthy  the  money.  Listen:  "The  Hammersmith  Mys- 
tery.' 'Interview  with  Leila  Mongomery.'  'She  Believes 
in  Phyllis'  Innocence.'  'The  Sisters'  Hearts  Broken  by 
a  Cowardly  Seducer.'  'He  Marries  Them  Both.'  'A 
Fashionable  Bigamist.'  'Miss  Mongomery  Thinks  It 
Was  Suicide.' 

"Good,  all  that,  for  a  beginning,  eh?  And  here's  the 
interview : 

"  'It  having  come  to  the  knowledge  of  the  Sunday 
Porcupine  that  much  light  could  be  thrown  upon  the 
Hammersmith  mystery  by  Miss  Leila  Mongomery,  a  rep- 
resentative of  our  paper  called  yesterday  evening  upon 
that  young  lady  in  her  residence  in  Camberwell,  and  was 
at  once  accorded  an  interview. 

"  'Miss  Leila  Mongomery,  who  is  a  golden-haired,  vi- 
vacious, little  lady,  of  exceptionally  prepossessing  ap- 
pearance, is  at  present  'resting,'  in  the  theatrical  parlance, 
having  recently  concluded  a  highly  successful  engage- 
ment as  principal  boy  at  the  North  Stourton  Theatre.  On 
the  subject  of  the  Hammersmith  mystery  she  is  voluble 
and  emphatic,  and  she  displayed  much  womanly  feeling 
and  affection  when  alluding  to  the  accused  and  missing 
woman,  Phyllis  Knight.  We  will  give  Miss  Mongomery's 
racy  talk  verbatim : 

"  'Phyllis  was  quite  incapable  of  cruelty/  she  declared, 


The  Uses  of  Advertisement.  303 

'and  would  no  more  have  committed  a  murder  than  I 
would.  She  adored  her  sister  and  constantly  spoke  of 
her.  She  and  I  were  together  in  a  theatrical  company 
about  a  year  ago.  Phyllis  was  a  fairly  good  actress,  but 
had  only  a  small  part.  Among  the  male  members  of  the 
company  was  a  fellow  with  dyed  black  hair  and  mustaches, 
who  called  himself  Sergius  Trevelyan.  He  went  in  for 
being  a  "masher,"  used  to  boast  about  his  family  in  a 
mysterious  sort  of  way ;  but  he  was  a  rank  bad  actor,  and 
too  fond  of  spirits.  He  tried  to  make  up  to  me,  but  I 
would  have  nothing  to  say  to  him.  He  was  living  with 
Phyllis  Knight  as  his  wife,  having  married  her  while 
the  company  was  playing  a  fortnight  at  Sheffield ;  but  all 
the  company  knew  it  was  illegal,  and  that  his  wife  was 
Miss  Millie  Clements,  a  well-known  American  opera 
singer.  All — that  is,  all  but  poor  Phyllis,  and  when  at 
last  we  broke  the  truth  to  her,  she  went  right  off  her 
head.  Of  course  we  were  all  sorry  for  her,  but  what 
could  we  do?  She  had  fallen  ill  and  had  to  be  left  be- 
hind. None  of  us  knew  her  sister's  address  and  Sergius 
wouldn't  give  it.  Phyllis  had  a  touch  of  brain  fever,  and 
nothing  was  to  be  learned  from  her,  so  business  being 
business,  we  had  to  continue  the  tour  with  some  one  else 
playing  her  part. 

"  'Very  soon  afterward  my  fine  gentleman  Sergius 
Trevelyan  left  the  company.  We  all  thought,  of  course, 
he  had  gone  back  to  poor  Phyllis  to  see  her  through  her 
trouble.  But  not  he!  Several  weeks  later  Phyllis  came 
after  the  company  to  find  him,  and  I  myself  met  her  on 
the  towing  path  at  Richmond,  so  changed  I  hardly  knew 
her,  and  almost  in  rags. 

"  'The  brute  had  deserted  her,  and  left  her  to  starve, 
and  we  couldn't  even  give  his  address. 

"  'And  when  and  where  do  you  think  I  next  set  eyes  on 
my  handsome  young  gentleman  ?    Why,  at  Plymouth  sta- 


304  The  Uses  of  Advertisement. 

tion  last  September,  when  I  was  acting  at  Davenport  and 
came  over  one  Saturday  for  the  day  with  the  rest  of  the 
company.  There  was  a  theatrical  wedding  on,  so  we 
heard.  The  author  and  manager  of  a  shocking  bad  piece, 
"Love's  Right,"  had  just  been  married  to  his  leading  lady, 
and  they  were  starting  off  on  their  honeymoon  journey. 
Her  name  was  Miss  Knight,  so  I  was  told,  and  he  was 
the  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick,  who  had  come  into  a  heap  of 
money  lately  on  the  death  of  his  father,  and  was  going 
about  the  country  calling  himself  Mr.  Darcy.  I'm  dead 
nuts  on  weddings — no,  I'm  not  married  myself,  not 
much!'  and  here  Miss  Mongomery  shook  her  head 
roguishly.  'From  what  I  see  of  you  men  you're  not  very 
well  worth  marrying! 

"  'Anyway,  I  peeped  into  the  compartment  reserved  for 
the  bride  and  bridegroom,  and  who  should  I  see  but  that 
scamp  Sergius  Trevelyan,  and,  as  I  thought,  Phyllis 
Knight,  only  looking  every  so  much  prettier  than  I'd  ever 
seen  her. 

"  'He'd  left  off  dying  his  hair  and  he'd  shaved  his 
mustache ;  but  I  knew  him  in  a  moment,  and  he  knew  me, 
too.  You  should  have  seen  his  face  change  when  I  called 
out- his  name.  And  you  should  have  seen  her  face  when 
I  said  he  was  Sergius  Trevelyan,  and  that  I  was  glad  to 
see,  now  Millie  Clements  was  dead,  that  he'd  done  the 
right  thing  by  Phyllis  Knight ! 

"  'The  point  was  it  was  not  Phyllis  he  had  married,  but 
her  sister,  Dorothy,  and  I  certainly  spoiled  his  honey- 
moon journey  for  him,  for  he  never  reached  the  end  of 
it.  You  remember  those  paragraphs  about  a  "Missing 
Bride"  which  appeared  in  the  papers  last  September? 
Well,  the  missing  bride  was  Dorothy.  She  had  rolled  him 
down  a  railway  embankment  on  their  way  to  Penzance, 
and  while  he  lay  there  stunned  she'd  given  him  the  slip 
and  escaped. 


The  Uses  of  Advertisement.  305 

"  'Then  the  next  thing  I  hear  is  that  poor,  dear  Phyllis 
is  accused  of  murdering  her  sister  for  money,  and  what  I 
say  is,  I  don't  believe  it !  That  man  Trevelyan,  or  Darcy 
Derrick,  broke  her  heart,  and  it's  just  possible  grief  turned 
her  brain  and  she  committed  suicide.  But  if  you  come 
here  and  tell  me  that  Phyllis  Knight  was  capable  of  com- 
mitting a  cold-blooded  murder,  and  on  her  sister,  of  all 
the  people  in  the  world,  for  a  wretched  bit  of  money,  I  tell 
you  you  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about.  It's  the 
man  in  this  case  who  deserves  hanging,  and  tarring  and 
feathering  first.  That's  my  opinion,  and  I  don't  care  who 
knows  it.' 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  asked  Wyverley,  who 
had  read  aloud  the  interview  with  the  utmost  enjoyment, 
putting  the  paper  down  and  looking  over  at  Darcy. 
"Rather  a  slating  for  you,  old  man,  isn't  it?  I  must  say, 
though,  I  think  you  richly  deserve  it,  and  you  are  so  fond 
of  getting  yourself  talked  about  that  I  suppose  you  don't 
mind!" 

But  the  Hon.  Darcy  did  mind  very  much  indeed.  It 
was  one  thing  to  have  his  artistic  achievements  dispar- 
aged and  quite  another  to  be  held  up  to  execration  and 
contempt  as  a  "bad  actor  with  dyed  mustaches,"  fond  of 
spirits  and  cruel  in  his  treatment  of  women. 

He  tried  to  console  himself  and  to  convince  Wyverley 
by  declaring  that  Miss  Mongomery's  was  the  venom  of 
a  woman  scorned.    But  Wyverley  only  laughed  at  him. 

"Vanity  is  a  disease  with  you,  my  boy,  that's  the  truth 
about  the  matter,"  the  latter  assured  him.  "You'll  get 
cut  in  the  clubs  and  chivied  in  the  streets  after  this." 

"We'll  call  on  Leila  in  her  Camberwell  retreat,  and 
I'll  get  round  her  and  make  her  take  it  all  back,  and  say 
the  reporter  was  lying,"  said  Darcy. 

With  this  end  in  view  he  executed  a  most  careful  toilet, 
and  chartering  a  hansom,  persuaded  Wyverley  to  accom- 


306  The  Uses  of  Advertisement. 

pany  him  to  what  he  called  "the  wilds  of  Camberwell," 
in  order  to  soften  Miss  Mongomery's  feelings  toward 
him. 

But  Leila  was  the  heroine  of  the  hour.  Every  copy  of 
the  Porcupine  had  been  bought  up,  and  friends  who  had 
forgotten  her  arrived  at  her  rooms  by  omnibus,  by  cab, 
or  on  foot,  to  hear  at  first  hand  her  account  of  the  events 
which  had  preceded  the  "Hammersmith  Mystery." 

The  arrival  of  Darcy's  cab  was  the  signal  for  quite  a 
demonstration,  and  Miss  Mongomery's  little  servant  felt 
that  the  most  sublime  moment  of  her  life  had  come  when 
she  stood  upon  the  doorstep  and  informed  Darcy,  in  shrill 
tones  which  resounded  down  the  street: 

"My  missus  won't  receive  you,  sir.  'Tain't  no  use  your 
calling,  for  she  wouldn't  demean  herself  by  talking  to  sich 
as  you?" 

"Hang  the  woman !"  muttered  the  discomforted  Darcy 
as  he  drove  away  from  Miss  Mongomery's  door,  followed 
by  audible  hisses  from  certain  of  that  lady's  neighbors 
and  friends.  "I  had  better  have  recognized  her  in  the 
train  that  day.    But  Phyllis  shall  pay  for  this!" 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

TRACKED  DOWN. 

An  anxious  week  for  Dorothy  and  Aylmer  passed  be- 
tween the  opening  of  the  inquest  and  the  adjourned  pro- 
ceedings. 

Nothing  of  any  importance  was  taking  place  either  so- 
cially or  politically  in  London  at  the  time,  and  the  "Ham- 
mersmith Mystery"  came  as  a  boon  to  newspapers  in 
want  of  sensational  "copy."  Dorothy's  short  connection 
with  the  stage  enabled  the  reporters  to  allude  to  the 
"Mysterious  Death  of  an  Actress,"  and  a  life-drama, 
which  included  among  its  dramatis  personae  the  heir  to 
an  Irish  title  and  more  than  one  member  of  the  theatrical 
profession,  necessarily  supplied  headlines  calculated  to 
double  the  circulation  of  any  judiciously  conducted  jour- 
nal. 

To  Aylmer  it  was  infinitely  painful  to  hear  on  all  sides 
the  woman  he  loved  and  reverenced  freely  discussed,  and 
to  read  items  of  information  concerning  every  detail  of 
her  life  chronicled  in  the  newspapers.  Public  opinion 
was  very  strong  against  Darcy  Derrick,  but  it  was  scarcely 
more  favorable,  on  its  feminine  side  at  least,  to  the 
woman  who  had  married  the  betrayer  of  her  sister. 

"Of  course  Dorothy  Knight  knew  all  about  it  when 
she  married  the  wretch,"  Rosa  Read  declared,  and  Rosa 
was  but  the  mouthpiece  of  the  ordinary  girl  who  speaks 
without  thinking.  "But  some  women  will  do  anything 
to  get  married,  and  she  almost  deserved  to  be  murdered 
for  it." 


308  Tracked  Down. 

Dorothy  grew  hot  and  cold  by  turns  when  Rosa  dis- 
cussed, as  she  constantly  did,  the  ins  and  outs  of  the 
"Hammersmith  Mystery,"  but  she  was  wise  enough  to 
keep  silent  on  the  subject. 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  about  it,"  she  would  remark. 
"But  surely  it  is  better  not  to  judge  too  harshly  unless  we 
know  everything." 

In  truth  there  seemed  little  need  for  so  much  caution. 
Not  one  member  of  the  little  household  at  Ashgrove  road 
appeared  in  any  way  to  connect  that  beautiful  young 
widow,  recovering  from  an  illness  and  still  a  little  fragile 
and  nervous,  with  the  alleged  murderess,  who,  with  her 
supposed  accomplice,  was  "wanted"  for  the  Hammer- 
smith inquiry. 

The  secret  possessed  by  them  in  common  drew  Aylmer 
and  Dorothy  very  near  together.  Daily  it  was  necessary 
that  they  should  meet  apart  from  the  others,  either  in  his 
study  or  in  the  summer-house  at  the  bottom  of  the  gar- 
den, and  discuss  the  latest  developments  of  the  case 
which,  in  his  journalistic  position,  Aylmer  was  among  the 
first  to  hear.  There  was  no  doubt  that  Leila  Mongom- 
ery's  revelations  had  made  Phyllis  Knight's  guilt  seem 
only  the  more  probable,  since  it  supplied  a  second  motive, 
that  of  jealousy,  for  her  grudge  against  her  sister.  The 
more  the  story  of  Phyllis'  sufferings  was  dwelt  upon,  the 
more  natural  it  seemed  that  she  would  detest  the  woman 
who  had  become  the  legal  wife  of  her  child's  father. 

"It  would  be  funny  if  it  were  not  so  horrible,"  Dorothy 
said  to  Aylmer,  "that  they  want  to  take  me  and  hang  me 
for  the  murder  of  myself.  Doesn't  all  this  talk  about  me 
as  a  possible  murderess,  all  this  dragging  of  my  life  to 
the  light,  lower  me  in  your  eyes?" 

"How  should  it  ?  It  is  Phyllis,  not  you,  whom  they  ac- 
cuse of  murder ;  and  what  I  learn  about  your  brave,  hard- 


Tracked  Down.  309 

working  and  unselfish  life  makes  me  love  you  a  thousand 
times  more." 

She  held  up  a  warning  finger. 

"Haven't  I  told  you,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  sadly, 
"that  you  will  drive  me  from  the  shelter  of  your  house  if 
•you  speak  to  me  in  that  way  ?" 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "aad  you  are  right;  but  when  you 
come  to  think  that  very  soon  you  will  pass  out  of  my 
life,  it  is  a  little  hard  and  difficult  to  keep  silent." 

They  were  talking  in  the  summer-house,  he  sitting  on 
the  table,  his  hands  full  of  newspapers,  she  leaning  back 
against  the  wooden  wall  of  the  little  building.  In  spite  of 
her  grief  for  her  sister's  loss — a  grief  as  deep  and  sincere 
as  it  had  been  within  a  hour  of  Phyllis'  death,  and  as  it 
would  remain  all  her  life — and  in  spite  of  the  terrible 
charge  hanging  over  her,  into  Dorothy's  face  there  had 
crept  since  her  coming  to  St.  John's  Wood  an  added  color 
and  sweetness,  a  dewy  brightness  of  the  eyes,  and  a 
soft  tremulousness  about  the  lips,  which  lent  the  finish- 
ing touches  in  which  her  regular  beauty  had  hitherto  been 
lacking. 

She  never  denied  to  herself  that  she  loved  Aylmer 
Read.  Her  heart  had  gone  out  to  him  on  that  first  even- 
ing when  he  had  dedicated  himself  to  her  service.  She 
loved  him  because  he  had  saved  her;  she  loved  him  be- 
cause he  believed  in  her;  she  loved  him  because  he  was 
a  man  after  her  own  heart,  and  her  time  for  loving  had 
come. 

All  her  acquired  distrust  of  men  vanished  before  her 
absolute  faith  in  him.  The  little  coldness  and  chilling 
speeches  with  which  she  had  been  used  to  fence  around 
her  beauty  she  cast  aside  when  with  him ;  and  her  faith 
in  him  was  so  absolute,  her  ideal  of  him  so  high,  that 
Aylmer  had  to  guard  his  every  look  and  word,  lest  the 
passionate  delight  with  which    her  presence  filled    him 


310  Tracked  Down. 

should  outstep  the  boundaries  prescribed  for  intercourse 
between  a  single  man  and  a  married  woman. 

Even  though  she  could  never  be  his,  he  thanked  heaven 
that  her  marriage  had  been  a  farce,  and  that  it  was  Doro- 
thy and  not  Phyllis  whom  he  had  chanced  to  love.  Doro- 
thy whose  first  love  had  been  given  to  him. 

He  knew  well  that  she  loved  him.  She  was  so  grate- 
ful, and  withal  so  sincere,  that  she  hardly  attempted  to 
disguise  the  feeling  which  shone  softly  from  her  gray 
eyes  and  which  echoed  through  her  voice  when  they  were 
alone  together  and  she  spoke  his  name.  And  yet  there 
they  sat  in  the  summer-house,  hidden  from  the  house  by 
the  laburnum  trees,  through  the  lacy  leaves  of  which 
the  spring  sunlight  danced  on  her  beautiful  face,  and  he 
dared  not  touch  her,  dared  not  kiss  those  soft  lips,  no 
longer  tightly  closed  as  of  old,  or  fold  those  strong,  slen- 
der hands  within  his  own. 

"Yes,  it  is  hard,"  he  repeated,  "harder  than  you  think." 

She  leaned  a  little  toward  him,  clasping  her  hands 
tightly  in  her  lap,  while  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes. 

"Don't  you  think  it  is  hard  for  me,  too?"  she  asked  in 
a  low,  passionate  whisper,  "when  now  for  the  first  time 
I  really  love,  to  know  that  through  my  own  foolish,  terri- 
ble mistake,  you  and  I  can  never  be  anything  to  each 
other,  and  that  I  shall  have  to  go  away  as  far  from  you 
as  possible  as  soon  as  it  is  safe  for  me  to  leave  England. 

"No !  don't  move,  and  don't  attempt  to  touch  me,  or  I 
shall  never  forgive  myself  for  telling  you.  But  won't  it 
make  you  happier  to  remember  afterward  that  I  loved 
you  in  return  ?  That  your  devotion  was  not  thrown  away 
and  unappreciated?  And  can't  you  see  that  loving  you 
makes  the  idea  of  that  horrible  man  claiming  me  a  thou- 
sand times  worse?  And  you  couldn't  come  between  us 
and  save  me.  As  he  told  me  once,  public  opinion,  law, 
society,  religion  itself  would  be  all  on  his  side  because  of 


Tracked  Down.  311 

that  fatal  quarter  of  an  hour  in  the  church  at  Plymouth 
last  September.  Yet  all  that  can't  prevent  me  from  loving 
you — and  I  do  love  you,  Aylmer,  with  all  my. heart  and 
soul.  I  am  dreadfully  happy  in  spite  of  everything  when 
you  are  near — no,  don't  try  to  take  my  hand  or  I  shall 
stop — I  grow  lonely  as  soon  as  you  are  out  of  the  house, 
and  glad  before  I  see  you,  knowing  that  you  are  coming 
back.  I  suppose  it  would  be  thought  wrong  for  me  to 
tell  you  this,  as  I  am  supposed  to  be  married  to  some- 
one else.  But  in  my  heart  I  am  married  to  you,  and  I 
shall  wear  your  ring  as  long  as  I  am  alive.  No !  I  forbid 
you  to  stop  me  or  to  touch  me!  I  am  going  into  the 
house  now,  and  I  don't  mean  ever  to  talk  like  this  again. 
Only — I  wanted  you  to  know  I  am  not  ungrateful." 

Here  Dorothy  broke  down  altogether,  and  fled  swiftly 
toward  the  house,  evading  his  outstretched  arms. 

And  Aylmer  sat  on  the  summer-house  table  and 
thought,  as  well  as  a  man  can  think  with  every  nerve  in 
his  body  tingling  with  passionate  love  and  his  heart 
thumping  like  a  sledge-hammer.  All  sorts  of  wild 
schemes  flashed  at  a  white  heat  through  his  brain,  but 
the  leading  idea  in  them  all  was  that  he  and  Dorothy  loved 
each  other,  and  that  the  world  believed  her  dead.  Once 
the  hue  and  cry  after  Phyllis  Knight  was  over,  and  Doro- 
thy could  carry  out  her  intention  of  escaping  with  Cress- 
well  to  America,  what  was  there  to  prevent  him  (Aylmer) 
from  accompanying  them  thither  ?  In  some  of  the  States 
divorce  laws,  as  he  knew,  were  elastic,  and  might  be 
stretched  to  meet  Mrs.  Derrick's  case. 

It  was  outrageously  unfair  that  she  should  remain  all 
her  life  bereft  of  the  shelter  of  a  husband's  love  through 
the  treachery  and  villainy  of  such  a  man  as  Darcy  Der- 
rick. Alymer's  fists  clinched  instinctively  at  the  mere 
thought  of  the  man.  Hatred  of  him  and  overwhelming 
joy  at  the  knowledge  of  Dorothy's  love  elbowed  each  other 


312  Tracked  Down. 

in  his  over-excited  brain.  Never  in  his  twenty-eight  years 
of  plodding,  hard-working  existence  had  such  a  tempest 
of  feeling  been  stirred  within  this  big,  quiet-looking 
young  man,  with  the  herculean  frame,  steady,  brown  eyes, 
and  drooping,  yellow  mustache.  He  had  been  waiting  for 
his  ideal,  garnering  up  for  her  his  stores  of  emotion ;  now 
that  he  had  found  her  and  had  earned  her  love,  he  felt 
that  he  could  sooner  part  with  life  itself  than  with  Doro- 
thy. 

Every  moment  of  Aylmer's  time  that  was  not  spent  at 
his  office  he  devoted  to  Dorothy's  service.  At  ten  o'clock 
on  the  morning  after  the  conversation  at  the  summer- 
house  he  presented  himself  at  the  door  of  the  coroner's 
court  for  Hammersmith  district,  an  office  held  in  a  barn- 
like room  at  the  rear  of  an  old-fashioned  inn  close  to  the 
Suspension  Bridge.  The  apartment  was  far  from  spa- 
cious; it  was  constructed  of  polished  pine  beams  and 
lighted  by  four  windows  at  the  sides,  by  others  in  the  slop- 
ing roof,  and  by  gas-burners  under  green  billiard-shades. 

On  the  murky  walls  hung  bills  announcing  a  benefit 
concert  to  be  shortly  given  in  the  same  room,  and  some 
garishly  colored  advertisements  of  a  new  "blanc-mange 
jelly."  It  was  a  bright,  windy,  spring  morning,  and  in 
the  little,  old-fashioned  tea-garden  outside  daffodils  and 
hyacinths  were  forcing  their  green  points  upward  from 
the  newly  trimmed  flower  beds.  A  crowd  of  people  had 
collected  in  the  vicinity  of  the  inn,  and  the  bars  were  filled 
by  groups  of  men  and  women,  all  interested  in  the  "Ham- 
mersmith Mystery." 

A  hansom  cab  drew  up,  and  the  gates  leading  to  the  tea- 
gardens  and  stables,  which  had  been  kept  closely  fastened, 
were  opened  to  admit  two  well-dressed  men ;  at  sight  of 
one  of  them  a  storm  of  hissing  went  up  from  the  loiterers 
outside. 

Darcy  Derrick   gave  a  sickly  smile.    He   was   not  a 


Tracked  Down.  313 

physical  coward,  but  the  howl  of  an  indignant  mob  is  try- 
ing to  the  nerves  of  even  the  strongest  and  most  self- 
possessed  of  men.  As  he  approached  the  door  of  the 
coroner's  court  by  the  side  of  Jack  Wyverley,  who  accom- 
panied him  from  motives  of  curiosity  solely,  Derrick's 
glance  fell  upon  Aylmer,  and  he  at  once  recognized  him 
as  the  man  he  had  seen  lurking  about  Lockhart  Cottages 
on  a  foggy  afternoon  a  week  before,  and  whom  he 
had  also  noticed  at  the  opening  of  the  inquest. 

An  instinctive  conviction  that  this  tall,  fair  man  who 
eyed  him  in  so  unfriendly  a  manner  was  in  some  way 
deeply  concerned  in  the  case  made  Darcy  address  Aylmer 
as  he  joined  him  by  the  door  of  the  court. 

"You  hear  that  ignorant  crowd  outside?"  he  said  in 
plaintive  accents.  "If  they  knew  a  little,  only  a  little,  of 
the  truth,  they  would  pity  me  instead  of  hooting  me." 

Aylmer  started  as  the  man  addressed  him,  and  almost 
involuntarily  drew  aside  as  though  disgusted  by  the 
thought  of  possible  contact  with  him. 

"If  they  knew  a  little  more  of  the  truth,"  he  said  curtly, 
"they  might  possibly  lynch  you." 

The  words  slipped  out,  inspired  by  detestation  of  Doro- 
thy's persecutor.  But  almost  immediately  Aylmer  knew 
that  he  had  done  an  unwise  thing  in  uttering  them. 
Darcy  fixed  the  gaze  of  his  large  blue  eyes  intently  upon 
him,  and  then  whispered  something  to  his  companion,  who 
laughed  and  said  aloud  that  it  was  "very  likely." 

A  few  minutes  later  they  were  all  inside  the  court,  and 
the  proceedings  had  begun. 

Dr.  Wentworth's  evidence  was  taken  first,  and  appar- 
ently much  against  his  will  he  was  questioned  closely  as 
to  the  state  in  which  he  found  the  missing  Phyllis  Knight 
and  her  servant  Cresswell  after  the  death  of  his  patient, 
Dorothy. 

Cresswell,  so   the   tall,  stiff-mannered,  young   doctor 


314  Tracked  Down. 

stated,  cried  so  much  as  to  be  practically  helpless,  while 
Miss  Knight  appeared  half  delirious  with  grief,  and 
scarcely  responsible  for  her  actions.  Later  on  the  evi- 
dence of  Dr.  Morgan  went  to  show  that  he  had  attended 
Phyllis — or,  as  she  was  then  called,  "Mrs.  Trevelyan" — 
during  the  preceding  year.  Undoubtedly  her  state  of 
health  had  for  the  time  affected  her  brain,  and  her  subse- 
quent attacks  of  neuralgia  and  sleeplessness  would  tend  to 
increase  this  trouble.  The  sisters  appeared  devotedly 
fond  of  each  other,  and  their  old  servant  seemed  greatly 
attached  to  them.  Dorothy  had,  so  Dr.  Morgan  declared, 
nothing  the  matter  with  her,  so  far  as  he  knew.  Ques- 
tioned as  to  whether  he  had  prescribed  laudanum  for 
either  sister,  he  emphatically  denied  it. 

Then  followed  the  evidence  of  no  fewer  than  five  chem- 
ists in  the  neighborhood  of  Lockhart  Cottages,  who  stated 
that  on  several  occasions  a  very  tall,  slender  woman,  of 
delicate  appearance  and  ladylike  manners,  wearing  her 
dyed  golden  hair  cut  short  as  a  boy's,  had  called  at  their 
shops  in  the  evening  and  purchased  laudanum,  to  allay, 
as  she  said,  the  pains  of  toothache. 

Evidence  as  to  the  exhumation  of  the  body  was  next 
given,  with  the  results  of  the  post-mortem  examination 
and  the  analysis  of  the  contents  of  the  body.  Amid  breath- 
less silence  the  wound  in  the  head  of  the  dead  woman,  a 
wound  sufficiently  serious  to  have  caused  death,  was  de- 
scribed at  length,  and  an  official  analyst  from  the  Home 
Office  deposed  to  the  weak  but  not  absolutely  diseased 
state  of  the  heart,  and  to  the  distinct  traces  of  laudanum 
having  been  discovered  in  the  body. 

Questioned  by  the  coroner,  the  witness  stated  that 
either  the  injury  to  the  head  or  an  overdose  of  laudanum 
might  have  been  the  cause  of  death. 

Mr.  Searle,  of  Searle  &  Glyn,  solicitors,  deposed  to 
attending  the  funeral  of  the  deceased  Dorothy  Derrick,  to 


Tracked  Down.  315 

whom,  under  her  maiden  name  of  Dorothy  Knight,  he 
had  forwarded  a  registered  letter  three  days  previously 
informing  her  that  she  had  become  possessor  of  the  great 
fortune  of  her  aunt,  a  late  client  of  his  firm.  At  the  time 
of  the  funeral  Mr.  Searle  had  never  met  either  of  the 
sisters,  but  upon  communicating  with  Miss  Phyllis  Knight 
immediately  afterward  he  received  from  her  the  letter 
which  he  handed  to  the  coroner,  and  in  a  subsequent  in- 
terview the  will,  also  shown,  by  which  the  whole  of  the 
deceased  Dorothy's  property  was  left  unconditionally  to 
her  sister.  After  procuring  from  him  an  advance  of  a 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  Miss  Phyllis  Knight,  acting,  as 
she  said,  on  her  doctor's  advice,  left  London  with  her  old 
servant  Cresswell,  promising  to  communicate  with  him 
immediately  and  to  call  at  his  office  before  proceeding  to 
join  her  brother  in  the  United  States.  From  that  mo- 
ment, however,  he  had  heard  and  seen  nothing  of  the 
young  lady,  and  police  evidence  went  to  show  that  No.  4 
Lockhart  Cottages  had  been  deserted,  no  trace  of  the 
destination  of  its  former  inmates  having  been  as  yet  dis- 
covered. 

At  this  point  a  tall,  pale,  poetical-looking  gentleman, 
of  graceful  bearing  and  regular  features,  dressed  in  a 
light  gray  suit,  volunteered  to  give  evidence,  and  a  mur- 
mur of  disapprobation  ran  along  the  room  as  he  gave 
his  name: 

"Darcy  Derrick." 

He  had  been  parted  from  his  wife,  so  he  stated,  and 
had  been  intensely  desirous  of  obtaining  an  interview  with 
her.  On  the  evening  of  her  death  he  had  presented  him- 
self at  the  gate  of  4  Lockhart  Cottages,  and  had  seen 
the  postman  deliver  the  registered  letter  for  Dorothea 
Knight,  before  alluded  to,  to  Cresswell,  the  servant,  who 
had  taken  it  into  the  house  and  shortly  returned,  bearing 
a  receipt  for  it.     She  had  omitted  to  secure  the  gate,  and, 


3i 6  Tracked  Down. 

entering  the  garden,  the  witness  had  looked  in  at  the 
window,  where  he  had  seen,  not  his  wife,  but  Phyllis 
alone  in  the  room,  holding  in  her  hands  the  registered 
letter. 

Recognizing  him,  Phyllis  had  started  up  and  ap- 
proached the  window,  and  he  had  then,  so  Darcy  said, 
retired  from  the  vicinity  of  the  house,  and  had  been  met 
by  his  wife,  who,  apparently  not  seeing  him,  had  hurried 
past  him  on  her  way  home.  Being  exceedingly  anxious 
to  see  her,  he  had  remained  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
about  an  hour  later  had  seen  Cresswell  go  out  weeping, 
and  return  shortly  in  company  with  Dr.  Wentworth.  On 
calling  on  the  latter  gentleman  he  learned  to  his  great 
surprise  and  horror  that  his  wife,  whom  he  had  seen 
alive  and  well  only  two  hours  before,  was  dead. 

Tears  stood  in  Darcy's  eyes,  and  his  voice  was  broken 
with  emotion  as  he  made  these  statements.  He  went  on 
to  admit  that  his  suspicions  as  to  foul  play  were  at  once 
aroused,  and  that,  being  convinced  that  his  late  wife  did 
not  suffer  from  heart  disease,  and  having  discovered  that 
the  will  was  a  forgery,  he  had  himself  applied  to  have 
the  body  exhumed  on  an  order  from  the  Home  Secretary. 

Following  this  startling  evidence  came  the  bonne 
bouche  of  his  own  discovering — the  testimony  of  Emma 
Amelia  Victoria  Huddleston,  daughter  to  a  laundress  in 
the  North  End  road.  Stupid  as  she  looked,  this  young 
woman's  memory  never  failed  her  in  a  single  particular, 
and  her  evidence  was  given  with  unhesitating  clearness. 
Cresswell  had  fetched  her  to  do  a  "bit  of  writing."  A 
lady  in  the  darkened  sitting-room  at  Lockhart  Cottages 
had  shown  her  a  folded  paper,  which  she  called  a  "list  of 
furniture,"  and  had  asked  her  and  Cresswell  to  witness 
her  signature.  She  had  thereupon  written  the  name 
"Dorothea  Derrick,"  at  which  Cresswell  had  seemed  sur- 
prised, and  had  uttered  a  whispered  remonstrance.    The 


Tracked  Down.  317 

lady,  who  was  wearing  deep  mourning,  and  looked  very 
ill,  had  turned  very  red  and  seemed  annoyed.  She  had 
been  thinking  so  much  of  her  sister,  she  said,  that  she  had 
signed  her  name  by  accident,  instead  of  her  own,  but  it 
did  not  matter,  and  she  would  alter  it  by  and  bye.  Cress- 
well  and  Miss  Huddleston  had  then  signed  their  names, 
and  the  latter,  after  receiving  half  a  crown  for  her  trouble, 
had  left  the  house.  All  this,  she  positively  asserted,  oc- 
curred on  the  day  following  the  funeral  of  Mrs.  Derrick, 
whom  she  had  never  seen,  yet  to  whose  will  her  signature 
was  found  appended  as  a  witness. 

At  this  point  the  Hon.  Darcy  was  recalled,  and  un- 
expectedly questioned  by  the  coroner  as  to  his  relations 
with  the  deceased  lady  and  her  missing  sister.  Phyllis, 
he  stated,  was  of  a  vindictive  and  jealous  disposition. 
Through  her  influence  misunderstandings  had  arisen  be- 
tween himself  and  his  wife,  although,  as  he  could  show 
by  a  deed  drawn  up  at  Plymouth  in  the  preceding  year, 
he  had  settled  a  handsome  income  upon  his  sister-in-law 
to  insure  her  silence  and  to  keep  her  from  troubling  him. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  the  coroner  com- 
menced his  summing  up,  and  he  did  not  fail  to  comment 
very  strongly  upon  the  unsatisfactory  character  of  a  great 
deal  of  the  evidence,  notably  that  of  the  deceased  lady's 
husband,  which  would  tend  to  completely  destroy  any 
possible  sympathy  which  might  be  felt  with  him  in  his 
bereavement.  In  the  absence  of  either  of  the  two  wit- 
nesses to  Mrs.  Derrick's  death,  and  in  the  ctrange  circum- 
stances of  their  flight  and  the  forgery  of  the  will  by 
Phyllis  Knight,  following  the  evidence  proving  that  it 
was  she  who  purchased  the  laudanum  found  in  the  body 
of  the  deceased,  and,  further,  that  it  was  she  who  re- 
ceived the  lawyer's  important  letter  in  her  sister's  absence, 
it  was  for  the  jury  to  decide — first,  whether  Dorothea 
Derrick  came  to  her  death  by  natural  means;  secondly, 


318  Tracked  Down. 

whether,  in  the  over-excited  state  of  Phyllis'  nerves,  and 
the  provocation  she  had  received  in  the  facts  of  her  painful 
domestic  history,  she  had,  in  a  sudden  impulse  either  of 
jealousy,  aggravated  by  the  sight  of  Darcy  Derrick  in 
the  garden,  or  the  desire  to  become  possessed  of  her 
sister's  fortune,  murdered  her  sister;  and,  thirdly,  as  to 
whether  there  was  any  evidence  to  prove  that  Maria 
Cresswell  was  an  accessory  before  or  after  the  fact. 

After  half  an  hour's  deliberation,  the  jury  returned  a 
verdict  of  willful  murder  against  Phyllis  Knight,  and 
acquitted  Maria  Cresswell  of  all  complicity  in  the  crime, 
they  holding  that  Dorothea  Derrick  had  met  death  by  a 
blow  inflicted  with  some  blunt  instrument  by  her  sister 
after  the  latter  had  ineffectually  endeavored  to  procure 
her  death  by  administering  laudanum  in  large  quantities. 

Evening  was  closing  in  as  Aylmer,  worried,  excited, 
and  weary,  hurriedly  left  the  precincts  of  the  court,  and, 
jumping  into  a  passing  cab,  gave  the  address: 

"40  Ashgrove  road." 

And  close  behind  him  in  another  cab  sat  the  Hon. 
Darcy  Derrick,  tracking  him  home. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

DARCY   FINDS   HIS   WIFE. 

Rosa  Read  at  half-past  six  that  evening  let  herself  out 
through  the  garden  gate  of  40  Ashgrove  road,  her  hands 
laden  with  flowers  from  the  conservatory,  intended  for 
the  Easter  decoration  of  the  church  where  her  favorite 
curate  officiated. 

Aylmer  had  arrived  home  in  a  cab  a  few  minutes  earlier, 
and  had  promptly  repaired  to  his  study,  where  Dorothy 
awaited  him.  Rosa  knew  quite  well  that  these  young 
people  were  in  love  with  each  other.  She  was  both  too 
vain  and  too  sweet-tempered  to  be  jealous,  but  she  felt, 
as  she  herself  expressed  it,  a  "little  bit  left  out  in  the 
cold,"  and  decided  that  a  mild  flirtation  with  the  curate 
would  revive  her  drooping  spirits. 

Scarcely,  however,  had  the  gate  swung  to  behind  her 
when  she  found  herself  involved  in  a  thrilling  adventure 
of  the  kind  specially  dear  to  her  heart.  Ashgrove  road 
was  thickly  bordered  with  trees,  and  from  under  the  heavy 
shadows  cast  by  those  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way, 
Rosa  discerned  in  the  twilight  the  figure  of  a  tall,  slightly- 
built  man,  dressed  in  a  light  gray  suit,  moving  along  in 
stealthy  fashion  and  accommodating  his  steps  to  hers. 

Being  extremely  pretty,  ill-bred  and  self-conscious, 
Rosa  was  not  unaccustomed  to  similar  attentions  from 
admiring  strangers,  and  she  was  very  far  from  resenting 
them.  It  was  Saturday  evening,  and  on  Saturdays  Ayl- 
mer had  no  night  work  at  his  office,  consequently  dinner 
was  a  movable  feast  and  punctuality  not  a  matter  of  mo- 


320  Darcy  Finds  His  Wife. 

ment.  Rosa  sauntered  along,  humming  the  "Hallelujah 
Chorus"  and  casting  every  now  and  then  glances  of  as- 
sumed indifference,  veiling  very  real  curiosity,  in  the 
direction  of  the  young  man  in  gray. 

At  last,  as  they  passed  into  another  quiet  road  about 
five  minutes'  walk  from  her  home,  the  stranger,  who  had 
been  narrowly  observing  Rosa's  style  and  carriage, 
crossed  the  road  and  walked  alongside  of  her  for  a  few 
seconds  without  speaking. 

A  little  frightened,  the  girl  looked  up.  The  man  raised 
his  hat  and  looked  down  into  her  pretty  face,  smiling 
broadly.  Such  blue  eyes  under  such  a  length  of  lash 
Rosa  had  never  seen  before.  Under  their  influence  she 
blushed  and  gave  a  half  smile  in  return.  At  once  her 
new  acquaintance  broke  into  speech  in  a  singularly  sweet 
voice  in  a  caressing  Irish  accent. 

"Do,  pray,  forgive  me,"  he  said,  deprecatingly,  "but  I 
couldn't  wait  for  an  introduction.  Ever  since  I  first  saw 
you  I  can  think  of  nothing  else.  I  dreamed  about  you 
all  last  night,  and  to-day  I  have  roamed  about  for  hours 
in  the  hope  of  getting  a  word  with  you.  You  are  not 
offended?" 

He  had  taken  the  measure  of  Rosa's  mind  with  perfect 
accuracy.     She  blushed  and  giggled. 

"I  really  can't  listen  to  such  stuff,"  she  said,  evidently 
much  pleased.  "And  besides  it  isn't  proper  from  a  com- 
plete stranger " 

"But  why  should  we  be  strangers?"  he  asked  eagerly. 
"Here  is  my  card." 

And  he  thrust  in  her  hand  a  card  bearing  the  name  of 
"Mr.  Jack  Wyverley,"  and  the  address  of  a  West  End 
club. 

"That  doesn't  tell  me  much,"  said  Rosa.  "I  don't  even 
know  when  you  first  saw  me." 

"It  was  in  church  last  Sunday,"  Darcy  hazarded. 


Darcy  Finds  His  Wife.  321 

"That's  odd,  for  I  generally  see  everybody  in  church, 
and  I  don't  remember  you." 

"Don't  walk  so  fast,"  he  pleaded.  "Can't  I  get  to  know 
your  people  somehow?  I  know  something  about  them. 
Mr.  Aylmer  Read,  of  the  Daily  Post,  I've  met  several 
times." 

"He's  my  cousin.  But  he'd  be  fearfully  angry  if  he 
knew  a  stranger  had  talked  to  me." 

"Then  don't  tell  him.  But  can't  I  call  to-morrow  after- 
noon ?  You  can  pretend  you  met  me  at  a  dance  or  some- 
where, you  know.  Are  your  mother  and  sisters  very 
particular  ?" 

"Oh,  mamma  is  very  strict  and  very  nice  by  fits  and 
starts.     And  I  haven't  any  sisters." 

"If  there  is  only  your  mother  in  the  house  with  you 
I'll  risk  it.     She's  sure  to  have  a  nap  in  the  afternoon." 

"She  does  sometimes.  But  we  have  a  visitor  staying 
with  us." 

"Not  a  man!  Oh,  Miss  Read,  don't  tell  me  it  is  a 
man.     I  shall  be  awake  all  night  with  jealousy." 

"How  dreadfully  absurd  you  are!"  exclaimed  Rosa, 
with  a  little  scream  of  laughter,  deciding,  as  the  light  of 
a  road  lamp  fell  on  his  face,  that  her  new  admirer  was 
quite  the  handsomest  man  she  had  ever  seen.  "Of  course 
it's  not  a  man,  though  it's  really  no  affair  of  yours,  and 
you  mustn't  detain  me  now.  I  am  in  a  hurry  to  help 
decorate  the  church  and  be  back  by  dinner  time." 

"I  am  not  detaining  you.  And  I  must  call  at  your 
house.  You  must  invent  some  story  to-morrow  to  quiet 
the  two  old  ladies " 

"Our  visitor  is  not  an  old  lady.  She  is  perfectly  love- 
ly, and  I  dare  say  if  you  were  to  see  her  you  wouldn't 
want  to  look  at  me  again." 

"The  woman  does  not  exist  whom  I  would  rather  look 


322  Darcy  Finds  His  Wife. 

at  than  you,"  Darcy  exclaimed,  with  what  sounded  like 
genuine  enthusiasm,  gently  lifting  her  ungloved  hand  to 
his  lips  and  kissing  it  fervently.  "Has  this  friend  eyes 
like  yours?  Soft,  brown  hair  like  yours?  And  a  com- 
plexion like  yours  ?    Tell  me  that !" 

"She  certainly  hasn't  very  much  color,  and  she  dyes 
her  hair,"  Rosa  admitted,  "but  she  has  the  most  lovely 
hazel-gray  eyes  you  ever  saw,  and  my  cousin  Aylmer 
never  looks  at  me  when  she  is  about.  Not  that  I  care 
about  that !" 

"I  should  think  not!  But  how  generously  you  speak 
of  this  lady's  beauty!  Very  few  girls  are  so  nice  about 
each  other.  I  suppose  she  is  an  old  school-fellow  of 
yours  ?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no.  She  is  Aylmer's  friend,  and  until  he 
brought  her  to  the  house,  a  week  ago  yesterday,  mamma 
and  I  had  never  seen  her." 

"It  must  be  nice  for  you  to  have  some  one  to  go  about 
with?" 

"I  thought  it  would  be.  But  she  hasn't  once  been  out- 
side of  the  house  and  garden  since  she  came.  Isn't  it  too 
bad?" 

"Shameful !  If  I  only  had  the  chance  I  would  spend 
every  moment  of  my  life  near  you !  Here  is  the  church, 
and  this  delightful  walk  has  come  to  an  end.  Give  me 
one  of  those  buds  you  have  there,  just  as  a  souvenir. 
When  you  come  out  you  will  find  me  waiting  to  see  you 
home.  To-morrow  you  will  see  me  in  church,  and  on  the 
following  day  I  will  call  at  your  house  and  tell  your 
mother  very  plainly  that  I  have  fallen  in  love  with  you 
and  mean  to  marry  you.  Won't  you  give  me  a  kiss  ?  No 
one  will  see." 

But  Rosa,  affecting  to  be  scandalized,  ran  past  him 
to  the  church.    A  very  little  talk  with  the  curate  and  the 


Darcy  Finds  His  Wife.  323 

girls  who  were  decorating  the  altar  sufficed  her.  She 
was  burning  to  rejoin  her  new  admirer  outside  the  church, 
and  perhaps  inclined  to  be  less  stern  than  before  on  the 
subject  of  the  kiss.  But  her  hopes  were  doomed  to  dis- 
appointment. Scarcely  had  her  pretty  figure  disappeared 
within  the  building  than  the  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick  pulled 
out  his  watch,  glanced  at  the  time,  and  set  off  at  topmost 
speed  for  the  nearest  cab-stand. 

"A  week  yesterday,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  Tale, 
dyed  golden  hair,  gray  eyes — I  think  that's  enough  to  go 
upon!  I  thought  there  was  something  odd  about  the 
interest  that  big  press  man  took  in  the  business,  and  my 
instincts  generally  turn  out  right  in  the  end." 

By  the  time  that  Rosa  Read,  on  the  tiptoe  of  expecta- 
tion, left  the  church,  her  alleged  admirer  was  being  rapid- 
ly driven  in  the  direction  of  Scotland  Yard,  whence  he 
speedily  returned  in  a  four-wheeler  and  the  company  of 
two  other  men  in  the  neighborhood  of  Ashgrove  road. 

Not  a  word  did  Rosa  utter  concerning  her  adventure 
to  the  other  occupants  of  the  house,  although  her  in- 
creased vivacity  might  have  shown  them  that  something 
unusual  had  occurred.  But  Aylmer  and  Dorothy  were 
far  too  preoccupied,  and  Mrs.  Read  was  too  unobservant 
to  take  notice  of  the  young  lady's  exuberant  spirits. 

In  his  study  before  dinner  Aylmer  had  detailed  to 
Dorothy  all  that  had  taken  place  at  the  coroner's  inquiry 
that  day.  Even  the  incident  of  his  encounter  with  Darcy 
he  mentioned,  and  was  surprised  at  the  importance  she 
attached  to  it. 

"You  don't  know  how  cunning  he  is,"  she  explained. 
"Something  in  your  manner  may  have  told  him  that  you 
know  more  than  you  are  supposed  to  know  about  the 
affair." 

"I  couldn't  answer  the  brute  as  if  I  liked  him,"  Aylmer 
admitted.    "Frankly,  I  could  have  kicked  the  fellow  for 


324  Darcy  Finds  His  Wife. 

daring  to  speak  to  me,  but  any  man  who  had  read  the 
case  would  have  felt  the  same." 

Dorothy  shook  her  head,  but  she  did  not  answer.  She 
was  far  indeed  from  liking  Aylmer  the  less  because  he 
could  not  restrain  his  contempt  for  Derrick,  but  she 
dreaded  the  latter's  treacherous  slyness,  and  her  horror 
of  him  was,  if  possible,  strengthened  by  the  lying  testi- 
mony he  had  that  day  given  against  her  dead  sister's 
name. 

Never  yet  since  she  had  sought  the  shelter  of  Aylmer's 
roof  had  she  felt  so  anxious  and  frightened.  During  din- 
ner she  sat,  eating  nothing,  pretending  to  listen  to  Mrs. 
Read's  prosing,  pretending  to  laugh  at  Rosa's  chatter, 
but  with  aH  her  senses  strained  and  on  the  alert  for  some 
sign  from  the  man  she  so  feared  and  hated. 

Before  eight  o'clock  the  sign  came.  Both  she  and 
Aylmer  were  listening  for  the  tardy  arrival  of  the  boy 
with  the  evening  paper  containing  the  fullest  account 
of  the  day's  proceedings.  But  when  the  parlor  maid 
opened  the  garden  gate  from  the  house  in  response  to 
the  lad's  accustomed  ring,  and  proceeded  to  unlatch  the 
front  door,  there  came  a  sudden  pause,  followed  by  the 
sound  of  men's  voices  speaking  in  low,  persuasive  tones 
in  the  passage. 

Aylmer  and  Dorothy  turned  pale  at  the  same  moment 
and  glanced  at  each  other. 

The  parlor  maid,  very  red,  and  evidently  much  fright- 
ened, hurriedly  entered  the  dining-room. 

"Please,  sir,  there's  two  men  as  wants  to  see  the  lady 
staying  here.  It's  some  mistake,  and  I've  told  them  so ; 
but  they  won't  go.  Will  you  please  come  out  and  speak 
to  them?" 

Aylmer  at  once  rose  and  left  the  room,  stopping  by  a 
gesture  Dorothy,  who  would  have  accompanied  him.  In 
the  hall  the  two  men  were  waiting,  clearly  members  of 


Darcy  Finds  His  Wife.  325 

the  police  force,  alert  and  businesslike  in  manner,  and 
perfectly  respectful. 

"No  offense,  sir,"  said  one,  proffering  his  professional 
card,  "but  from  information  received  we  have  reason  to 
believe  there's  a  lady  staying  in  this  house  who  is  wanted 
by  the  police  on  rather  a  serious  charge." 

"You  have  made  a  very  grave  mistake,"  Aylmer  said, 
calmly.  "I  am  Aylmer  Read,  chief  sub-editor  of  the 
Daily  Post,  and  there  are  no  ladies  in  this  house  but 
three  friends  and  relatives  of  my  own." 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  in  the  exercise  of  our  duty  we 
should  like  to  see  and  question  those  three  ladies." 

"It  is  impossible,"  Aylmer  was  beginning,  but  before 
the  words  were  well  out  of  his  mouth  he  was  joined  by 
Dorothy  from  the  dining-room,  the  door  of  which  she 
carefully  closed  behind  her. 

She  had  come  in  the  fear  lest  sheltering  her  should 
in  any  way  injure  Aylmer's  position.  She  felt  certain 
that  Darcy  had  tracked  her  to  earth,  and  that  further 
concealment  would  be  worse  than  useless,  since  it  might 
only  cast  serious  suspicion  on  Aylmer. 

At  sight  of  this  fourth  person  the  man  who  had  already 
spoken  whistled  very  softly  to  himself. 

"If  I'm  not  very  much  mistaken,  this  is  the  person  we 
are  after,"  he  said.  "Will  you  oblige  me  with  your  name, 
madam?" 

"Mr.  Read  knows  me  as  Mrs.  Ransome,  but  my  real 
name  is  Knight." 

"Then  I  must  ask  you  to  come  with  us.  A  cab  is 
waiting  outside." 

And  thus,  with  the  slightest  difficulty  or  attempt  at 
a  struggle,  was  the  capture  of  the  missing  woman  effect- 
ed, and  Darcy  Derrick's  supreme  cleverness  vindicated. 
With  more  than  a  woman's  pettiness  and  vanity,  he  pos- 
sessed all  a  woman's  quick,  unreasoning  intuition.     He 


326  Darcy  Finds  His  Wife. 

had  felt  convinced  that  Aylmer's  enmity  and  disdain  pro- 
ceeded from  a  personal  source,  and,  acting  on  that  hint 
alone,  he  had  brought  about  the  capture  of  the  woman 
who  stood  between  him  and  ten  thousand  a  year. 

Truly  Darcy's  star  was  in  the  ascendant. 

At  Ashgrove  road  Aylmer  had  the  questions,  the  terror 
and  the  excited  reproaches  of  his  womankind  to  meet 
and  to  allay. 

But  the  sight  of  the  woman  he  would  have  laid  down 
his  life  to  protect  borne  away  from  his  house  a  prisoner 
affected  him  so  terribly  that,  regardless  of  his  aunt's 
voluble  inquiries,  he  locked  himself  into  his  study  and 
ignored  all  feminine  tappings  and  quaverings  through 
the  keyhole. 

So  poor  Mrs.  Read  had  to  go  to  bed  with  "one  of 
her  headaches,"  brought  on  by  baffled  curiosity,  leaving 
the  elucidation  of  the  mystery  in  the  hands  of  Rosa,  who, 
by  dint  of  running  noisily  up  to  her  room  and  then  creep- 
ing down  into  the  hall  and  waiting  there  on  a  chair  for 
four  hours  and  a  half  for  any  sound  of  movement  from 
the  study,  succeeded  in  waylaying  Aylmer  as  he  left  the 
room  to  turn  the  lights  out  in  the  hall. 

At  sight  of  his  cousin  he  started  and  looked  displeased. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  sitting  up  for?"  he  asked 
sharply. 

"Oh,  Aylmer,  don't  be  cross  and  horrid.  I'm  so  dread- 
fully sleepy!  But  I  was  so  anxious  about  dear  Dolly 
that  I  simply  couldn't  go  to  bed.  Now,  why  don't  you 
tell  me  all  the  truth?  I'm  awfully  fond  of  her  and 
wouldn't  dream  of  going  against  her.  And  perhaps  I 
can  tell  you  something,  too.  When  I  went  around  to 
St.  Ann's,  just  before  dinner,  a  man  followed  me,  and 
would  persist  in  talking  to  me,  and,  as  I  remember  now, 
asking  a  heap  of  questions  about  the  people  in  this  house. 
Of  course,  I  was  furious,  and  did  all  I  could  to  get  rid  of 


Darcy  Finds  His  Wife.  327 

him.  But  you  know  how  dark  the  roads  are  about  here, 
and  I  didn't  want  to  get  murdered " 

"What  sort  of  a  man?" 

"Oh,  a  gentleman  altogether.  Dressed  in  gray,  and 
very,  very  handsome,  with  light  hair  and  a  beautiful,  pale 
complexion,  and  enormous  blue  eyes  and " 

"I  know  the  brute!  That  was  Darcy  Derrick,  and  it 
was  through  his  successful  pumping  of  you  that  Dorothy 
has  been  arrested." 

"But  he  said  his  name  was  Wyverley " 

"He  would  say  anything.  Don't  cry,  Rosa.  It  can't 
be  helped  now,  and  it  was  I  who  first  aroused  his  sus- 
picions." 

"But,  Aylmer — do  tell  me,  because  you  know  I'm  not 
a  bit  prejudiced — is  Dolly  really  and  truly  the  murderess, 
Phyllis  Knight?" 

Aylmer  turned  upon  her  angrily. 

"How  can  you,  who  have  been  with  her  for  a  whole 
week,  ask  such  a  senseless  question  ?  It  is  all  a  mistake — 
I  may  as  well  tell  you,  as  it  will  all  come  out  next  week 
— Phyllis  Knight  is  dead;  the  woman  we  know  and  love 
is  her  sister,  Dorothy.  She  is  hiding  because  she  is 
married  to  that  snake,  Derrick,  and  hates  the  sight  of 
him.  Now,  whichever  way  the  trial  goes,  the  law  will 
give  her  to  him.  God  help  the  poor  child!  I  can't  talk 
any  more.     Good-night." 

All  the  next  day  Aylmer  was  working  in  Dorothy's 
behalf.  To  fetch  Cresswell  from  her  friend's  at  Acton 
was  his  first  move,  after  visiting  Dorothy  by  permission 
in  company  with  Rosa.  At  this  juncture,  with  Dorothy's 
life  and  liberty  in  the  balance,  there  must  be  no  more 
misconception  as  to  her  identity,  and  even  she  seemed  to 
recognize  this,  in  a  hopeless  fashion. 

On  the  Monday  morning  early,  under  a  drizzling  rain, 
Aylmer  stood,  with  Rosa  by  his  side,  before  the  as  yet 


328  Darcy  Finds  His  Wife. 

unopened  doors  of  the  police  court,  a  chapel-like  edifice 
situated  in  a  sordid  side  street  within  a  few  seconds'  walk 
of  the  main  road,  among  the  usual  crowd  of  dirty,  be- 
draggled looking  women  in  hats  with  broken  feathers, 
every  third  woman  carrying  a  dirtier,  short-coated,  pallid 
baby  in  a  torn  plush  cape,  the  typical  personages  who  in- 
variably congregate  at  such  times  and  places. 

The  court  was  not  large,  and  as  they  all  waited  in  the 
rain,  many  chance  speculators  drawn  by  curiosity  con- 
cerning the  much-discussed  case,  joined  the  crowd  by 
twos  and  threes,  under  dripping  umbrellas.  Aylmer  had 
left  no  stone  unturned  during  the  past  twenty-four  hours 
by  which  he  could  further  Dorothy's  interests,  and  had 
secured  in  her  defense  one  of  the  ablest  advocates  in 
London,  to  whom  he  had  on  the  previous  day  confided 
the  true  facts  of  the  case.  As  to  Rosa.,  she  had  begged 
so  hard  to  be  allowed  to  accompany,  him  to  the  court 
that  Aylmer  had  not  the  heart  to  refuse  her,  the  more 
so  as  he  had  seen  the  truth  of  her  argument. 

"Dolly  will  like  a  woman  friend  to  be  near  her.  You 
know  she  almost  said  so  yesterday." 

Flushed  and  excited,  Rosa's  pretty  face  looked  prettier 
than  ever  under  her  jaunty,  crape-trimmed  hat  as  she 
waited  before  the  court  by  Aylmer's  side,  and  her  mur- 
mured talk  about  "dear  Dolly"  appeared  to  attract  the 
attention  of  a  handsome,  surly-looking  young  man  who 
stood  near,  and  who,  with  themselves,  constituted  the 
well-dressed  portion  of  the  crowd  on  the  steps  just  be- 
yond the  closed  doors  of  the  building. 

Even  in  her  genuine  sympathy  and  liking  for  Dorothy 
Rosa  was  pleasantly  conscious  that  she  was  exciting  the 
attention  of  a  man  in  the  person  of  this  stranger,  of  me- 
dium height  and  thick-set,  deep-chested  figure,  who,  al- 
though he  lacked  the  effeminate  beauty  of  Darcy  Derrick, 
possessed  undeniable  claims  to  good  looks  in  his  well- 


Darcy  Finds  His  Wife.  329 

marked  features,  curly,  dark  hair,  and  especially  in  a 
pair  of  bright,  boldly-glancing,  gray  eyes,  with  which 
Rosa  seemed  strangely  familiar. 

"When  that  creature  Derrick  comes  into  court,"  Rosa 
confided  in  an  audible  whisper  to  Aylmer,  "it  will  be  just 
all  I  can  do  not  to  throw  something  at  him.  What  a 
dreadful  pity  he  can't  be  hanged  for  something!  Of 
course  you  must  thrash  him,  Aylmer,  as  soon  as  the  case 
is  over.  Thrash  him  and  kick  him!  He  ought  to  be 
put  to  death  by  slow  torture.  I'm  sure  I  should  love  him 
to  be  burned  alive,  and  watch  him  sizzling." 

"So  should  I !"  muttered  the  dark  young  man. 

Aylmer  looked  annoyed,  but  Rosa  blushed  and  laughed. 
Dignity  was  a  quality  unknown  to  her,  and  she  would 
willingly  have  entered  into  conversation  over  the  Ham- 
mersmith tragedy  with  the  good-looking  stranger  had  not 
Aylmer  been  there  to  restrain  her. 

When  the  court  opened  she  was  pleased  to  find  that 
the  dark  young  man  was  following  her  closely,  and  that 
he  contrived  to  secure  a  seat  next  to  her,  very  near  the 
prisoners'  dock,  which,  in  shape  like  a  very  large  cage 
open  at  the  top,  stood  toward  the  centre  of  the  hall,  facing 
the  magistrate's  chair  on  a  dais  under  a  shabby  crimson 
canopy. 

The  proceedings  opened  with  the  usual  Monday  lists 
of  "drunk  and  disorderly,"  "using  obscene  language  and 
assaulting  the  police  in  the  performance  of  their  duties," 
and  a  few  cases  of  thieving,  one  of  the  last,  which  espe- 
cially touched  Rosa,  being  that  of  two  very  little  girls, 
too  small  to  be  seen  in  the  dock,  who  were  led  by  an 
extremely  kind  and  fatherly  big  policeman  up  to  the  table 
before  the  magistrate. 

"How  wonderfully  short  all  the  criminal  classes  are !" 
whispered  Rosa,  who  was  prone  to  generalize,  in  Aylmer's 
ear. 


330  Darcy  Finds  His  Wife. 

But  Aylmer  was  in  no  mood  to  take  an  interest  in 
anything  but  the  case  for  which  he  was  waiting,  and  at 
eleven  o'clock,  as  had  been  previously  announced,  it  came 
up  for  hearing,  and  in  response  to  the  direction,  "Bring 
in  the  prisoner,"  two  policemen  left  the  hall,  returning 
one  on  each  side  of  the  fairest  woman  who  had  ever  stood 
in  that  court  accused  of  the  foul  crime  of  murder. 

A  murmur  ran  through  the  building.  People  stood 
up,  whispering  and  jostling  each  other.  The  magistrate, 
a  man  of  keen,  intellectual  face,  settled  his  pince-nez  upon 
his  nose,  and  gazed  long  and  attentively  at  the  accused 
woman.  His  son,  a  handsome  lad  of  about  fifteen,  who 
sat  close  beside  him  on  the  bench,  stared  at  Dorothy  with 
all  his  eyes,  and  instantly  hoped  the  "governor"  wouldn't 
be  hard  on  her.  Rosa  Read  burst  out  crying,  and  Ayl- 
mer's  heart  thumped  as  though  it  would  burst  his  ribs. 

The  woman  he  loved  stood  there,  within  a  few  feet 
of  him,  paler  and  thinner  than  she  had  appeared  less  than 
a  year  ago,  when  he  had  first  seen  her,  but  to  his  eyes 
lovelier  still  because  more  helpless,  more  appealing,  and 
because,  after  one  frightened  look  around  the  court,  her 
gaze  sought  his,  and  softened  and  brightened  as  she  read 
in  his  eyes  the  unwavering  love  he  tried  to  show  there. 

Under  her  wide-brimmed  black  hat  Dorothy's  face 
looked  wan  and  white.  The  moment  was  nearing,  she 
knew  well,  against  which  she  had  fought  so  long,  and 
the  future  stretched,  a  gray  blank  shrouding  horrible 
possibilities,  before  her.  Her  head  dropped  forward  as 
the  formal  evidence  of  her  arrest  was  taken,  and  her 
pale  lips  could  hardly  form  the  words : 

"Not  guilty!" 

The  long  tension  had  snapped  now,  and  apathetically 
she  waited  for  the  end  she  knew  must  come.  A  chair 
was  given  her  in  the  dock ;  after  two  sleepless  nights  she 
was  thoroughly  tired,  and  very  soon  her  thoughts  went 


Darcy  Finds  His  Wife.  331 

off  in  a  waking  dream,  picturing  what  might  have  hap- 
pened had  she  done  what  her  heart  prompted  on  that 
midsummer  day  of  the  preceding  year,  when  in  her  cab 
she  had  been  driven  past  Aylmer  Read  on  her  way  to 
Charing  Cross  station  and  the  start  of  the  "Love's  Right" 
Company. 

"I  believe  I  loved  him  then,"  she  said  to  herself,  "al- 
though I  would  not  let  myself  think  so.  And  if  I  had 
only  stopped  my  cab  and  held  out  my  hand  to  him,  all 
might  have  been  so  different.  I  might  have  been  his 
wife  at  this  moment  instead  of " 

" the  whole  truth.     So  help  me  God !" 

Some  one  was  being  sworn — a  witness  hitherto  un- 
heard. With  a  start  Dorothy  raised  her  head  and  saw 
the  tall,  broad-shouldered  figure  of  her  faithful  knight, 
Aylmer  Read,  to  whom  the  oath  was  being  administered. 

Briefly,  but  with  absolute  clearness  and  directness,  he 
answered  the  questions  put  to  him  as  to  his  meeting  with 
the  accused  in  Villiers  street  on  the  Friday  afternoon  of 
the  week  before  last,  and  as  to  taking  her  home  in  a  cab 
to  his  relations. 

Questioned  as  to  why  he  had  done  this :  "The  accused 
lady  is  an  old  friend,"  he  said  boldly,  "and  I  knew  her  to 
be  innocent  of  the  charge." 

Dorothy  was  watching  and  listening  to  him  with  a 
beating  heart.  Her  eyes  were  intently  fixed  on  his  face, 
so  that  she  did  not  hear  the  slight  commotion  which 
occurred  as  a  gentleman  entered  the  court  and  took  his 
place  at  the  solicitors'  table.  But  before  Aylmer  could 
frame  a  reply  to  the  next  inquiry  put  to  him,  Darcy  Der- 
rick sprang  up  from  his  seat,  pale  as  death,  muttering 
something  under  his  breath,  with  dilated  eyes  fixed  upon 
Dorothy's  face. 

The  recognition  had  come! 

Dorothy  knew  it,  and  lowered  her  head  over  her  hands 


332  Darcy  Finds  His  Wife. 

folded  in  her  lap.  Nothing-  seemed  to  her  to  matter  now. 
But  God  help  that  man  if  he  tried  to  claim  her  as  his 
wife! 

She  heard  a  buzz  of  talking,  then  the  magistrate's  voice, 
clear  and  metallic,  speaking  in  raised  tones : 

"Not  Phyllis  Knight?  Most  extraordinary!  What  is 
the  meaning  of  this  ?    And  who  is  she,  then  ?" 

Then  a  little,  thin-faced,  elderly  woman  in  black  made 
her  way  forward  from  the  back  of  the  court,  and  presently 
Dorothy  heard  Cresswell  telling  the  story  of  Phyllis' 
death. 

"And  my  mistress,  Miss  Dorothy,  that  is  sitting  over 
there,  told  me  I  was  to  say  it  was  her  that  was  dead 
and  not  Miss  Phyllis,  because  she  was  married  to  a  hor- 
rible, wicked  man,  and  if  he  thought  she  was  dead  he'd 
let  her  alone.  Miss  Dorothy  wasn't  in  the  house  when 
her  sister  died,  and  when  she  found  her  dead  on  the  floor 
she  was  like  to  go  mad.  To  accuse  her  of  murdering 
her  was  the  stupidest  and  wickedest  thing  I  ever  heard !" 

And  here,  before  Cresswell  could  be  brought  to  book 
for  wandering  from  the  point,  Dorothy  broke  down.  To 
see  Darcy's  white,  triumphant  face  and  smiling,  scarlet 
lips,  to  feel  the  possessive  and  caressing  look  from  his 
longing  eyes,  as  they  took  in  greedily  every  detail  of  her 
face  and  form,  stirred  in  her  such  a  sick  repulsion  that 
her  senses  seemed  suddenly  to  fail  her.  She  swayed  in 
her  seat,  and  would  have  fallen  had  not  a  police  officer 
hurried  to  support  her.  On  a  few  words  from  the  magis- 
trate she  was  assisted  from  the  hall,  and  two  hours  later, 
weak  and  nerveless,  she  entered  a  cab  with  Cresswell  and 
Rosa  Read,  and  drove  toward  St.  John's  Wood  amid  an 
unexpected  and  wholly  disconcerting  storm  of  cheering 
from  a  crowd  collected  outside  the  door  of  the  police- 
court. 

Rosa's  delight  knew  •  no  bounds.     She  had  artlessly 


Darcy  Finds  His  Wife.  333 

confided  her  opinions,  as  the  case  proceeded,  to  the  dark 
young  man  at  her  side,  who  appeared  to  take  the  keenest 
interest  in  the  whole  affair.  As  the  cab  door  closed  he 
pressed  forward  as  though  he  would  have  addressed  some 
words  to  Dorothy,  but,  seeing  her  evident  condition  of 
nervous  collapse,  he  refrained,  and  contented  himself  with 
grasping  Rosa's  hand  and  whispering: 

"To-morrow  you  will  hear  from  me." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  sweet  Dolly!"  cried  Rosa,  embracing 
Dorothy  with  much  warmth  as  the  cab  drove  off;  "I  am 
so  glad  you  have  got  off.  You  looked  simply  sweet  in 
that  horrid  old  bird-ca^e,  but  I  was,  oh,  so  glad  when 
they  let  you  out !  That  nice,  dark  young  man  who  shut  the 
cab-door  for  us — didn't  you  notice  him? — must  have  a 
lot  of  feeling.  He  actually  had  tears  in  his  eyes  when 
dear  old  Cresswell  told  about  your  sister's  death,  and  how 
fond  you  were  of  each  other.  But  one  thing  I  am  sorry 
you  missed.  I  don't  mean  the  applause  when  the  judge 
said  you  weren't  guilty,  though  he  hardly  pretended  to 
stop  that,  but  the  things  he  said  about  that  Darcy  Der- 
rick's conduct.  He  talked  about  his  'callous  cruelty/  and 
'vindictiveness  equaling  his  vice,'  and  a  few  horrid  little 
speeches  like  that ;  and  that  Darcy  creature  actually  took 
out  a  pocket  handkerchief  and  howled — or,  at  least,  if  he 
didn't  howl,  he  really  mopped  tears  up  like  a  boy  who's 
been  whipped.  'If  only  you  were  an  assasisin,'  I  said 
to  that  nice  young  man  next  to  me,  'I  should  pay  you 
to  wait  for  him  when  the  case  is  over  and  stick  him  in 
the  back.'  He  said  he  shouldn't  want  paying.  Oh,  I 
do  hope,  dear,  you  won't  be  vexed  with  me  for  talking 
like  that  of  a  man  who  happens  to  be  your  husband !" 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

AND  I,AST. 

Close  upon  nine  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  the  same 
day  Darcy  Derrick  sat  alone  in  his  flat  near  Addison 
Road  station. 

The  result  of  the  inquiry  had  been  all  he  could  desire. 
The  woman  he  so  passionately  loved,  after  the  fashion 
so  peculiar  to  men  of  his  stamp,  was  alive,  and  sooner  or 
later  he  was  resolved  that  she  should  be  his.  She  was 
his  wife,  and  he  could,  and  would,  carry  her  off  from 
Aylmer  Read's  care  at  the  earliest  opportunity.  Already 
he  had  called  at  Ashgrove  road,  and  had  vainly  entreated, 
demanded  and  threatened  on  the  subject  of  her  detention, 
and  he  had  since  then  consulted  his  solicitor  as  to  the 
best  means  of  getting  hold  of  her,  and  had  received  a 
legal  opinion  every  way  favorable  to  his  views.  Naturally 
she  would  in  time  grow  to  love  him  as  ardently  as  he 
could  wish.  Darcy  was  frankly,  incapable  of  believing 
that  any  woman  would  long  continue  to  resist  him.  And 
in  the  meantime  she  and  her  fortune  would  be  his. 

Already  he  had  arranged  for  detectives  to  watch  her 
every  movement  lest  she  should  endeavor  to  again  slip 
through  his  fingers,  and  he  was  mentally  preparing  a 
romantic  abduction  by  night  of  his  own  wife  after  a  style 
which  commended  itself  highly  to  his  wholly  un-English 
imagination. 

Meantime  an  adoring  husband,  undeservedly  deserted 
by  his  lawful  wife,  stands  in  need  of  consolation,  and 
with  this  aim  Darcy  had  caused  a  dainty  little  cold  supper 


And  Last.  335 

a  deux  to  be  sent  in  from  the  best  restaurant  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, with  the  intention  of  discussing  it  in  the  com- 
pany of  a  charming  and  sympathetic  young  person  whose 
acquaintance  he  had  casually  made  a  few  days  before. 

The  visitor  was  to  have  arrived  at  nine  o'clock^  and 
in  deference  to  the  prejudices  which  a  censorious  world 
and  a  rebellious  wife  might  be  expected  to  entertain, 
Darcy  had  considerately  dismissed  his  attendant  at  half- 
past  eight,  with  full  permission  to  remain  away  until  the 
afternoon  of  the  following  day.  The  testimony  of  ser- 
vants in  courts  of  law,  as  Darcy  knew,  is  almost  invariably 
damaging  to  their  masters,  servants  being  as  a  rule  prac- 
tical and  vulgar-minded  persons,  incapable  of  grasping 
the  higher  and  purer  side  of  their  employers'  motives. 

To  Darcy  there  was  nothing  incongruous  in  the  fact 
that,  while  waiting  for  his  expected  guest,  he  should 
employ  his  time  in  writing  to  his  mother,  to  tell  her 
how  cruelly  his  conduct  had  been  misunderstood  and 
maligned  by  the  magistrate  that  day,  and  how  deeply  his 
feelings  had  been  wounded  by  that  gentleman's  remarks. 

Seated  at  a  small  table  furnished  with  pens,  ink  and 
paper,  a  siphon  of  soda,  a  decanter  half  filled  with  whiskey  > 
and  a  frequently  replenished  tumbler,  Darcy  felt  tears  of 
self-pity  rush  into  his  eyes,  and  let  them  splash  down 
onto  the  open  letter  he  was  writing  as  he  dilated  on  his 
wrongs.  He  contrived  that  the  tears  should  fall  where 
the  ink  was  wet,  because  he  knew  the  sight  of  their  traces 
would  touch  his  mother,  and  he  felt  badly  in  need  of 
her  sympathy. 

"You,  my  only  true  friend,"  he  wrote ;  "the  only  woman 
living  who  has  ever  really  understood  me,  how  you  would 
have  suffered  if  you  had  seen  me  sitting  in  court  to-day 
a  target  for  the  contemptible  sneers  of  a  paltry  English 
Jack-in-office,  whose  senses  had  been  stirred  by  the  sight 
of  my  wife's  beauty !    Her  sister  was  barely  cold  in  her 


336  And  Last. 

grave  before  Dorothy  flew  to  the  protection  of  a  lover. 
Think  of  it,  mother!  While  forging,  plotting,  and  per- 
juring herself  that  I  might  think  her  dead,  she  was  all 
the  while  living  in  this  man's  house  at  St.  John's  Wood, 
and  to-day  when  I  called  they  would  not  admit  me.  The 
tragedy  of  it  lies  in  the  fact  that,  ungrateful,  deceitful 
and  cruel  as  she  has  proved  herself,  I  love  her  still.  Were 
she  really  dead,  as  I  believed  until  to-day,  her  entire  for- 
tune would  be  mine ;  but  I  love  her  for  herself,  and  I  am 
so  overjoyed  to  find  that  she  lives  that  I  must  forgive 
her  everything.  Yet  consider  how  she  has  made  me  suf- 
fer! She  has  attacked  me  savagely,  has  fled  from  me, 
preferred  another  man  to  me,  publicly  disgraced  me,  and 
dragged  my  name  in  the  dust!  And  I  love  her  so  pas- 
sionately, so  madly,  that  for  the  sake  of  her  beautiful 
figure,  her  soft,  fair  skin  and  shining,  gray  eyes,  her  sweet 
voice,  and  the  marvelous  charm  her  whole  personality 
exercises  over  me,  I  must  forgive  her  and  never  rest  until 
I  take  her  to  my  heart,  which  her  cruelty  has  gone  near 
to  break." 

Darcy  put  down  his  pen  at  this  point  and  read  over 
what  he  had  written.  It  was  very  affecting  and  a  good 
deal  true,  and  it  brought  tears  to  his  eyes.  He  drank  a 
tumbler  of  whiskey  and  soda,  and  set  to  work  again  with 
renewed  vigor. 

"When  I  think  over  my  life,"  he  wrote,  "it  seems  to 
be  made  up  of  sacrifices  for  women.  And  yet  only  one 
woman  have  I  yet  met  who  is  worthy  of  a  sacrifice,  and 
that  is  you,  my  tenderest  and  best  of  consolers  and  coun- 
selors, my  sweet,  beautiful  mother!  This  is  one  of  the 
darkest  hours  of  my  life,  and  but  for  the  thought  of  your 
sympathy  I  might  be  tempted  to  end  an  existence  which 
a  poetic  soul,  an  over-delicate  sensibility  and  an  intense 
capability  for  loving  have  rendered  barren  and  desolate. 
I  am  not  yet  thirty-five,  but  what  lies  before  me?  I  am 


And  Last.  337 

not  a  coward,  and  yet  I  shudder  at  the  thought.  I  long 
with  all  my  soul  for  peaceful,  happy  rest,  for  a  dreamless 
'Garden  of  Proserpine.'  " 

"From  too  much  love  of  living, 

And  hope  and  fear  set  free, 
We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 

Whatever  gods  may  be. 
That  no  life  lives  forever, 
That  dead  men  come  back  never, 
That  even  the  weariest  river 

Flows  somewhere  safe  to  sea." 

Darcy  quoted  Swinburne's  lines  aloud  as  he  again 
put  down  his  pen.  He  was  unusually  fond  of  poetry, 
and  in  all  his  many  wanderings  over  the  face  of  the  earth 
he  had  never  failed  to  take  with  him  his  favorite  volumes 
of  Robert  and  Mrs.  Browning,  of  Swinburne,  de  Musset, 
Tennyson  and  some  minor  poets,  whose  sweetness  of  ut- 
terance commended  itself  to  him.  His  own  verses  were 
often  pretty,  if  a  little  feeble  and  over-sensuous,  and  he 
would  have  liked  nothing  better  than  to  be  a  minor  poet 
himself,  had  the  exercise  of  such  a  profession  brought  him 
in  sufficient  commercial  return.  Unfortunately  for  Darcy 
he  possessed  all  the  artistic  susceptibilities  and  tastes, 
and  was  minded  to  indulge  in  all  the  irregularities  usually 
associated  with  genius,  while  he  altogether  lacked  the 
originative  power  which  induces  the  world  to  overlook 
or  condone  such  drawbacks  on  the  part  of  its  gifted  sons. 
Had  he  possessed  the  makings  of  a  great  poet,  or  of  a 
brilliant  prose  writer,  his  eccentricities  would  have  been 
only  what  was  to  be  expected  from  a  genius,  and  the 
recital  of  them  would  have  tended  to  greatly  enliven  and 
popularize  his  biography  after  death.  But  as  it  was,  he 
felt  he  was  misunderstood.    His  conduct  had  been  pub- 


338  And  Last. 

licly  branded  as  cowardly  and  contemptible  that  very  day, 
and  on  leaving  the  police  court  he  had  been  soundly  hissed 
and  hooted  by  an  ignorant  and  depraved  crowd,  who  had 
actually  broken  the  windows  of  his  hansom  by  the  stones 
and  lumps  of  mud  that  they  hurled  at  him.  It  was 
enough,  Darcy  felt,  to  make  a  man  kick  the  dust  of  Eng- 
land off  his  boots  and  journey  to  the  Great  Sahara,  but 
that  ten  thousand  a  year  and  a  beautiful  wife  who  hates 
you  are  powerful  attractions  to  keep  a  man  in  any  coun- 
try, however  undeserving. 

He  had  become  so  much  interested  in  his  letter  that  for 
the  time  he  had  forgotten  his  expected  guest,  so  that  when, 
soon  after  half-past  nine,  the  bell  of  his  flat  was  rung, 
he  started  and  was  almost  annoyed  by  the  interruption 
to  his  flow  of  composition. 

Soon  a  smile  of  satisfied  vanity  crossed  his  features. 
He  rose,  and,  going  to  the  looking-glass  over  the  dressing- 
table  in  the  adjoining  bedroom,  he  smoothed  his  hair  and 
silky,  slight  mustache,  rearranged  his  cravat,  squirted 
some  scent  about  his  face  and  the  front  of  his  coat,  shot 
out  his  cuffs,  and,  thus  prepared  for  conquest,  proceeded 
to  the  entrance  door  of  the  tiny  hall  upon  which  his  rooms 
opened,  and  unfastened  the  latch. 

But  at  this  point  a  disappointment  awaited  him.  In- 
stead of  the  person  he  expected  a  man  stood  there — a 
broad-shouldered,  deep-chested  young  man  of  medium 
height  and  dark,  saturnine  face,  who,  as  soon  as  the  door 
was  opened,  thrust  his  foot  into  the  aperture  and  kept 
it  there. 

He  was  too  well  dressed  to  be  a  dun,  so,  mentally 
cursing  him,  Darcy  inquired  his  business. 

"My  business  is  with  you,  Mr.  Darcy  Derrick." 

There  was  a  note  of  dogged  determination  about  the 
young  man's  voice,  and  Darcy,  without  knowing  why, 
felt  apprehensive. 


And  Last.  339 

"If  you  have  a  writ  or  anything  like  that "  he  was 

beginning  when  the  stranger  cut  him  short. 

"Nothing  of  the  sort.  But  you've  got  to  have  an  in- 
terview with  me,  so  you  may  as  well  let  me  in  at  once 
and  get  it  over." 

As  he  spoke,  by  a  sudden  movement  he  burst  the  door 
wide  open,  and,  thrusting  Darcy  aside,  strode  into  the 
sitting-room. 

Darcy  went  back  to  the  sitting-room  and  found  the 
dark  young  man,  with  his  hands  behind  his  back,  con- 
temptuously surveying  the  supper-table.  Darcy  went  at 
once  to  the  open  letter  to  his  mother,  which  he  had  left 
on  his  writing-table,  and  slipped  it  within  his  desk,  from 
the  inside  of  which  his  fingers  drew  deftly  forth  some- 
thing glistening,  which  he  promptly  secreted  within  the 
pocket  of  his  coat.  Then  he  turned  toward  the  young 
man  and  addressed  him  with  easy,  gentle  superiority. 

"I  am,  of  course,  charmed  to  make  your  acquaintance," 
he  began,  "but  as  I  don't  know  who  you  are,  and  my  time 
is  rather  valuable " 

"My  name  is  Sholto  Knight,"  said  the  stranger, 
brusquely. 

"My  wife's  brother!  I  am  delighted  to  meet  you. 
Have  some  champagne  to  celebrate  the  event !" 

As  he  cut  the  cork,  with  Sholto  staring  fixedly  at  him 
the  while,  Darcy  tried  to  remember  what  he  had  heard 
from  Phyllis  and  Dorothy  of  the  man  with  whom  he  had 
to  deal.  Gradually  it  became  borne  in  on  his  mind  that 
this  brother  was  a  ne'er-do-well,  who  had  been  turned 
out  of  his  home  and  had  gone  abroad.  Darcy  had  not 
the  slightest  wish  to  know  the  man,  and  he  was  wondering 
how  he  could  get  rid  of  him  as  he  filled  two  glasses  and 
offered  one  to  Sholto. 

"Drink  it  off,"  he  said,  "to  your  sister's  future  happi- 
ness and  mine." 


34°  And  Last. 

Sholto's  fist  was  down  in  a  minute,  and  the  splintered 
glass  flew  about  the  room. 

"You  cursed  scoundrel !"  burst  from  his  lips.  "Do 
you  think  I'll  drink  with  you?  I've  come  here  to  give 
you  the  soundest  thrashing  you  ever  had.  As  soon  as 
the  news  of  my  sister's  death  was  cabled  to  New  York 
I  came  over.  I  was  in  court  to-day  and  heard  the  evi- 
dence, and  now,  you  sneaking  cur,  you  expect  Phyllis 
Knight's  brother  to  drink  with  you !" 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  small,  stout  dog-whip,  and 
fingered  it  lovingly,  without  once  removing  his  eyes  from 
the  face  of  Darcy.  The  latter  had  grown  pale,  and,  back- 
ing a  little,  contrived  to  put  the  supper-table  between  him- 
self and  his  brother-in-law,  while  his  fingers  stealthily 
sought  the  pocket  of  his  coat. 

Before  he  had  time  to  draw  his  revolver  the  lash  of 
the  dog  whip  was  curling  about  his  ears,  stinging  his 
cheeks,  and  half  blinding  him.  Sholto's  blood  was  up, 
and  he  did  not  stay  his  hand. 

"That's  for  deceiving  and  deserting  my  sister  Phyllis ; 
and  that's  for  breaking  her  heart  and  murdering  her ;  and 
that's  for  blackening  her  memory ;  and  that's  for — ah  !" 

A  shot  whizzed  past  his  head  and  embedded  itself  in 
the  opposite  wall.  Sholto  caught  Darcy's  hand  before  his 
fingers  could  touch  the  trigger  again,  and  in  dead  silence 
the  two  men  wrestled  for  possession  of  the  revolver. 

This  way  and  that,  to  right  and  left,  they  swayed. 
Sholto  had  the  advantage  in  youth,  brute  force  and  supe- 
rior physical  condition,  but  Darcy  had  the  science  of  the 
prize-ring  at  his  fingers'  ends,  and  was  equally  deft  and 
daring.  He  was  fighting  for  his  life,  and  he  knew  it. 
There  was  a  look  of  savage,  murderous  hate  in  Sholto's 
eyes  which  was  a  danger  signal  to  his  adversary.  Darcy 
hated  physical  cruelty,  but  he  told  himself  that  he  must 
either  kill  the  brute  or  be  killed  by  him,  and  just  at  that 


And  Last.  341 

moment  when  his  resistance  seemed  to  be  giving  way 
under  Sholto's  savage  force,  by  a  sudden  movement  with 
his  leg  he  tripped  up  his  enemy  and  the  pair  fell  heavily, 
wrestling  still,  to  the  ground. 

Darcy  was  uppermost,  and  by  a  sharp  struggle  he 
wrenched  himself  free.  He  tried  to  spring  to  a  standing 
position,  but  Sholto  gripped  his  feet,  and  brought  him 
to  his  knees.  Kneeling  thus,  Darcy  hurled  himself  upon 
the  other  man  with  all  his  force,  and  strove  to  pin  him  to 
the  ground  with  one  hand,  while  with  the  other,  which 
shook  a  little  by  this  time  from  excitement  and  fatigue, 
he  pointed  the  revolver  full  at  Sholto's  head. 

Before  he  could  discharge  it  his  hand  was  sharply 
knocked  up,  diverting  his  aim  at  the  moment  that  the 
pistol  clicked,  and  he  fell  backward  without  a  cry. 

The  shot  had  entered  his  brain,  and  Darcy  Derrick's 
days  of  evil-doing  were  ended. 

Slowly,  and  shaking  a  little,  for  to  take  a  life  is  not  an 
every-day  occurrence,  even  to  a  reckless  man,  Sholto 
scrambled  to  his  feet.  He  did  not  need  to  examine 
Darcy 's  body.  He  knew  the  man  was  dead,  and  for  that 
he  had  no  regret  whatever,  but  he  did  not  care  to  look 
upon  the  sorry  sight  at  his  feet. 

"He  was  a  villain,"  he  said,  half  aloud,  as  though  exon- 
erating himself  to  some  one  who  accused  him.  "And  he 
killed  my  sister  Phyllis — poor,  pretty  little  Phyllis!  It's 
a  good  thing  that  he's  out  of  the  world.  Dorothy's  freed 
from  him,  at  any  rate.  Now  she  can  marry  the  pretty 
girl's  cousin  and  have  a  bit  of  happiness.  So  I  haven't 
come  over  for  nothing. 

"I  did  it  in  self-defense,  but  unfortunately  for  me  they 
have  a  nasty  way  of  calling  that  sort  of  thing  murder  in 
these  infernal  civilized  countries.  As  it  is,  he's  been  writ- 
ing a  lot  of  maudlin  poetry  and  nonsense  about  dying, 


342  And  Last. 

and  he  expected  somebody  to  supper  who  didn't  come, 
and  he's  been  called  names  to-day  in  public,  and  his  wife 
won't  live  with  him,  so  that  they  may  well  think  he  blew 
his  wicked  brains  out.  But  in  case  they  don't,  as  nobody 
knows  I've  come  over,  I  shall  slip  back  to  New  York  by 
the  next  boat.  I'd  like  to  have  spoken  to  Dolly  again, 
but  it's  better  not.  She  mightn't  like  my  having  had  to 
kill  him,  and  some  women  will  make  themselves  miserable 
for  years  over  a  trifle  like  that." 

Without  another  glance  in  Darcy's  direction,  he  let 
himself  softly  out.  Fortune  favored  him.  He  slipped 
down  the  stone  stairs  noiselessly  as  he  had  come,  and, 
driving  off  to  his  hotel,  he  speedily  packed  his  hand-bag, 
paid  his  bill,  and  entered  the  next  train  for  Liverpool. 

A  week  later  in  New  York  he  read  the  cabled  account 
of  the  discovery  of  the  body  of  the  Hon.  Darcy  Derrick 
by  his  valet  on  the  Sunday  afternoon  after  the  trial,  and 
the  verdict  of  "suicide  while  of  unsound  mind"  returned 
at  the  inquest. 

"So  that's  safe !"  he  said,  drawing  a  long  breath.  "And 
now  I  can  write  to  the  pretty  girl !"       ' 

Some  days  later  Rosa  Read  received  a  letter  with  no 
address  and  an  American  postmark. 

"Dear  Miss  Rosa,"  it  began.  "Can  you  keep  a  secret  ? 
If  you  breathe  a  word  in  this  letter  to  any  one,  and  if 
you  don't  burn  it  at  once,  you  will  bring  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  upon  everybody,  and  worse  than  trouble  upon 
me.  You  told  me  at  the  inquiry  you  wanted  Darcy  Der- 
rick to  be  flogged  and  killed.  Well,  he  was  flogged,  and 
he  is — dead.  So  you  see  some  one  had  a  mind  to  please 
you  and  satisfy  his  sense  of  justice  at  the  same  time.  I 
hope  Dorothy  will  marry  your  big  cousin,  and,  perhaps, 
if  you  are  a  good  girl  and  keep  single,  I  will  some  day 
come  over  and  marry  you.  Sholto  Knight/' 


And  Last.  343 

Rosa' burned  the  letter  and  kept  its  contents  more  or 
less  a  secret.  For  quite  six  months  she  lived  in  a  flutter 
of  romantic  expectation.  But  all  this  happened  three 
years  ago.  For  two  years  Aylmer  and  Dorothy  have  been 
man  and  wife ;  friends,  lovers  and  companions,  they  never 
tire  of  each  other's  society. 

Rosa  says  they  are  an  ideal  couple,  but  "a  bit  slow." 
And  Sholto  had  better  hasten  back,  for  Rosa  is  engaged 
to  be  married  to  a  stout  brewer  next  June. 


THE  END. 


A  POPULAR  BOOK  FROM  A  FAVORITE  PEN. 


MISS  FAIRFAX  OF  VIRGINIA. 


BY 


ST.     GEORGE     RATHBORN 


Mr.  Rathbornc  is  under  exclusive  con- 
tract to  write  for  Street  &  Smith  for  a  term 
of  years.  "  Miss  Fairfax  of  Virginia  "  is 
the  latest  work  from  his  pen,  published  in 
book  form.  It  is  also  considered  to  be  one 
of  his  very  best  novels.  It  is  replete  with 
startling  situations,  and  the  reader's  inter- 
est is  atoused  with  the  opening  chapter, 
continuing  unabated  to  the  end. 


GOLD  TOP,  ENGLISH  SILK  GLOTH.    PRICE  35  CENTS. 


Street  *  Smitl),  Publisbers, 

232  WILLIAM  STREET, 
NEW  YORK. 


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i 


;!  ONE  OF  MRS.  SHELDON'S  BEST  NOVELS. 

QUEEN  BESS. 


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BY 
MRS.  GEORGIE  SHELDON. 


This  book  is  No.  4  of  the  Rose  series, 
of  uniform  bound  copyright  novels  by  the 
best  authors,  and  is  one  of  the  finest  stories 
Mrs.  Sheldon  has  ever  written.  The  pop- 
ularity of  this  author  and  the  uniform  ex- 
cellence of  all  her  works  leaves  but  little 
necessary  to  be  said  in  favor  of  any  par- 
ticular book  from  her  pen.  **  Queen  Bess  " 
will  furnish  an  enjoyable  treat  to  all  who 
i    are  seeking  a  thoroughly  good  novel. 

it 

0 

{       STREET  &  SMITH,  Publishers, 

$  232  William  Street,  J 

NEW  YORK,     i 


GOLD  TOP,  ENGLISH  SILK  GLOTH.    PRICE  35  CENTS. 


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ooooqoooqoooooqoqooqgoooc 

A  THOROUGHLY  ENJOYABLE  BOOK. 


Geoffry's   Victory. 


BY 
MRS.  GEORGIE  SHELDON. 

Mrs.  Sheldon's  works  arc  known  and  loved  in 
the  majority  of  American  homes.  No  writer 
can  better  touch  the  heart  and  rouse  an  interest 
which  continues  until  the  last  chapter  of  her 
story  is  finished.  Her  style  is  one  which  has  won 
for  her  the  heartiest  commendation  of  all  lovers 
of  a  good  novel.  **  Geoffry's  Victory"  is  one  of 
her  best  storieSi«^ «^e£* <£•«£"«£*<£* *?*«£* «£•«<?* t^e^tS"*^*?".^ 


BOUND   UNIFORM    WITH    THIS    WORK-ENGLISH    SILK    CLOTH,    WHITE    LAID 
PAPER,  COLD  TOP. 


For  sale  by  booksellers  and  newsdealers  everywhere, 
or  sent  by  mail,  postpaid,  for  35  cents  by  the  pub- 
lishers. 

5TREET  &  SniTH, 

238  William  Street, 

.....NEW  YORK. 


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$t.  George  Ratbborne's  most  famous  Book. 

DR.  JACK. 


This  popular  author  has  written  many  good  novels, 
but  of  all  his  works  none  have  become  quite  so  famous 
as  "Dr.  Jack."  It  is  universally  conceded  to  be  a 
a  masterpiece  of  fiction.  Everyone  who  has  read  any 
of  Mr.  Rathborne's  works  should  not  fail  to  read 
"Dr.  Jack,"  and  those  who  have  never  read  anything 
from  his  pen  will  find  this  work  an  excellent  one  to 
introduce  his  work  to  their  attention.  There  is  not  a 
dry  line  in  the  entire  book. 


GOLD  TOP,  ENGLISH  SILK  CLOTH.   PRICE  35  CENTS. 


STREET  &  SMITH,  Publishers, 
232  WILLIAM  STREET, 

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BY  I 

ST.  GEORGE  RATHBORNE.    | 


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DATE  DUE 

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A  A      000  060  958    6 


